Wednesday, December 31, 2003

 
Wasted some time recently sending an unsolicited email to VD Hanson:

"Hotspur & Hoplites

Prof. Hansen:

Given that it seems no one has ever read a line of the vanityblog, nromirror.blogspot.com, it is probably coincidental that some lines from a bathetic poem about a toy dog was soon followed by a John Derbyshire post about Ulysses' dog, Argos, and that a blog reference to Ogygia was followed by your column which mentioned Calypso.
That some American Ulysses will return to drive out Hispanic "suitors" and parasites(granted, some work as hard as helots, but unlike helots, of course, some of them vote)seems about as likely as that say, Joe Kennedy Jr. will return, having earlier been beamed aboard an alien vessel prior to the explosion of his(experimental prototype?)bomber. And it seems that when some landowner takes upon himself the role of Horatius at the Gate(being uncultured, the lines about temples of our gods and ashes of our fathers were familiar to me only from some issue of Soldier of Fortune and JD's recent post)he is subject to scrutiny and sanctions far sterner than that faced by the reconquistadors.
There may be over 4 million blogsites, which makes for "fearful odds" and I doubt that I have even risen to the level of persona non grata, and have long ago given up hope of any kudos, but Best Wishes go out from here for what I hope will be a much more successful effort on your part to call upon the "spirits" from our "vasty deep." (As a "Hotspur" might note: highly trained and spirited hoplites ain't enough.)

Best,"


Never mind the misspelling of "Hanson" or that the quotation from the poem about Horatius was not from the Derbsage('twas from some other Cornerite-Robinson, perhaps-Google searches of the Corner often involve some serious scrolling) or the excessive groveling or whining-a splendid opportunity was narrowly missed to have beaten the Limester in a post about the power, or lackthereof, or fear of, words- a.k.a. those "patterns of vibrating molecules in air." Googling the memorable quotes by Hotspur: (from Shakespeare's Henry IV)- Glendower: "I can call spirits from the vasty deep." Hotspur: "Why so can I can, or so can any man; But will they come when you do call for them?"
The subject reminded one of speculations(which are probably well nigh universal)about how invocations or incantations of lesser demons or angels might possibly arouse supernatural thingees from whatever they do during their down time: Might they have something like a pager that ignores all but a certain phrase or phrases out of the vast chatterings of mortals? Duh-21rst century anthropomorphizing....
And sometimes those patterns of vibrating molecules peak and trough their merry or dirgey way by us in the form of song. Far funnier than the Derbowdlerized and unexpurgated Cole Porter alt. lyrics Cornerposted lately, was the choreography by black railway builders that answered a white foreman's call for "a good ol' nigger work song" in *Blazing Saddles." The bit ended, as those who saw the flick cannot fail to remember, with the whites getting down with a Stetsoned Steppin Fetchit rendition of "Camptown Races" as the boss arrived.
I don't know if Cole Porter inspired the theme song of the old cartoon show Top Cat, but here are the lyrics:

"Top Cat!
The most effectual Top Cat!
Who's intellectual close friends get to call him T.C.
Providing it's with dignity.

Top Cat!
The indisputable leader of the gang.
He's the boss, he's a pip, he's the championship.
He's the most tip top,
Top Cat.

Yes he's a chief, he's a king,
But above everything,
He's the most tip top,
Top Cat.

Top Cat!"

Perhaps it could be critiqued by Cosmo or Boris. -Or used in a video game wherein the er, Cat Pack contends for turf with a drug-dealing gang of Russian expat dogs who threaten the life of Officer Dibble *and* his family....(Book by William Kleinknecht -"The New Ethnic Mutts" to follow)
Or sung by Derb within earshot or Oakeshott of his sonically suffering family. Mine yiddisher frau rained on mine schadenfreude several days ago after I chortled about the Derbarrister's wishes, expressed from time to time, for the jailing of the executives of toy, software, and battery manufacturers by not so gently reminding me that my own utterances, made while reading or watching tube, have become something of a family joke. I don't know if Derbyshire keeps his over the top piques to himself, but I resolve next year to keep my "Kill them all!"s inaudible. That having said, I do make an effort not to foist my political beliefs on my minors, and for the record, believe that folks who drag their tots out on protests(for whatever cause) should be, uh, never mind. -Darn, wish I still had my store-bought bumper sticker: "SHOOT ALL EXTREMISTS!"
On a lighter vein, I've caught a few moments of Mark Steyn interviews on talk radio while commuting. He was doing some lamentations of the banishment of Christmas from the Public Square or whathaveyou and gave an account of hearing some school kiddies sing some songs (at, I think, a bookstore-I haven't found a transcript and my memory of his actual words is *very* hazy here). At first hopeful, he was disappointed by some "Chanuka(there are many spellings of Chanuka and his pronunciation of the word, may, for all I know may be acceptable in the eastern reaches of the Anglosphere) dirges." He then went on to assert that there are no good Chanuka songs because the Jews were too busy writing songs like Irving Berlin's "White Christmas." He got the whole schtick out flawlessly, preemptively quashing any fears that his remarks could be taken as even remotely antiSemitic. -very deft and *very* funny IMHO.

I suspect that Mr. Derbyshire is so widely read in part because he draws upon many sources of which many of his readers have some smattering familiarity.(also, he doesn't churn out sentences like the last) And if he repeats himself now and then, well, the trips down engram lane are appreciated. I've forgotten all but the title of "Slipping the surly bonds of mirth" hacked out after reading the orig on NRO, but it's not unpleasant to remember the reading of the poem that was a sign-off staple of some television broadcasters many years ago.

Best wishes go out for the soul of Alan Bates. I'm unfamiliar with most of his work, but watched a copy of "Butley" many times years ago. Highly reccommended (if you can find a copy) and all that. I hope to hear soon from my eldest daughter who recently completed something like a semester abroad in London, taking some classes and interning for a jazz label. (And hope she wasn't subjected to anything like Butley's tormenting of an American student!) I've never been double-dogged dared to voice a wish that my children will die of some horrible illness, and come to think of it, most people *do* die of some horrible disease, but a few years ago, said daughter said that she no longer believed in the existence ofGod. I muttered something to the effect that while she might well be correct, that I found it difficult to believe that my children are nothing but collections of molecules, destined only for insensate rot. -o.k., so I didn't actually say 'insensate," but hard, ain't it, to imagine hoping otherwise?