And Now for a Little Cowper

The June issue of The Banner of Truth magazine arrived in the mail today, and it reminded me that I should probably spend a little less time grousing and a lot more time contemplating.

The whole magazine is interesting and educational as usual, but there were several items of special interest. The first is a short piece about Protestants in Lebanon. In 1950 there were an estimated 50,000 Protestants in that country. Now the best guess is that there are 3,000. Two groups, the Middle East Reformed Fellowship and Lebanon Reformed Fellowship - both founded by Lebanese- are, through radio and the Internet, working to bring the Gospel to that troubled country, and to the MIddle East as a whole. If you have a concern about spreading the Word in that area you might want to consider adding thse groups to your prayer list.

There was also a small piece about a British organization called Christians at Work. The name is pretty self explanatory. The have a website that may be of interest:Christians at Work - Home . I've also added their site to the link list.

Now, as promised, a little William Cowper.

PRAYER

What various hindrances we meet,

In coming to the mercy seat!

Yet who that knows the worth of prayer,

But wishes to be often there?

Prayer makes the darkened cloud withdraw,

Prayer climbs the ladder Jacob saw,

Gives exercise to faith and love;

Brings every blessing from above.

Restraining prayer, we cease to fight;

Prayer makes the Christian's armour bright:

And Satan trembles when he sees

The weakest saint upon his knees.

While Moses stood with arms spread wide,

Success was found on Israel's side;

But when, through weariness, they failed,

That moment Amalek prevailed.

Have you no words? Ah! think again;

Words flow apace when you complain,

And fill your fellow-creature's ear

With the sad tale of all your care.

Were half the breath thus vainly spent,

To heaven in supplication sent,

Your cheerful song would oftener be,

'Hear what the Lord has done for me.'

Ouch!

Antics from Washington, D.C.

Occasionally I have to gird my loins and take a look under that rock known as Washington, D.C. to see what our public servants are up to. After a couple of stiff drinks, and holding a bottle of scent beneath my nose to battle the stench, I can usually take a peek without gagging. Sometimes it has a certain fascination not unlike watching torado worms bore into the hull of a ship.

Among the usual nonsense that has come from the banks of the Potomac are two items of interest.

The first concerns the agreement among the Gang of Fourteen in the back rooms of the Senate to "compromise" on the matter of filibusters to hold up the voting for President Bush's choices for the Federal bench. The Democrats do not like the appointees because, well, because they don't. The Democrats seem to be still holding their collective breaths until the populace comes to its senses after re-electing President Bush. If we're lucky the Dems will all pass out soon and the nation can get on with life without tantrums. The Republicans want an up or down vote before the full Senate concerning the judicial nominees. But strangely, despite the fact that the GOP is the majority party in the Senate, they seem to be able to get up the gumption to exercise the power they have spent so many years whining about not having.

So the Seven Dwarfs from one party got together with the Seven Sob Sisters from the other and made an agreement that is supposed to solve the impasse. The Democrats agreed to filibuster judicial nominees only in "extreme" circumstances. The document does not define the word "extreme." It looks like the Republican Senators have fallen for a game of three card monty and are smiling away as their pockets are being picked.

Once again we see some truth to the adage, "Democrats are dangerous. Republicans are useless."

Representative John Conyers has introduced a bill promoting a big Kum Ba Ya campfire singalong. He calls it an anti-intolerance bill, but a close reading of the bill shows it to be a Koran Protection Act, because the only book mentioned specifically is the Koran and the only religion mentioned is Islam. The bill, if passed, has no teeth because it's a "feel good" bill. One of those "sense of the House" type things. But it is the thin end of the wedge. Meanwhile, Mr. Conyers apparently has little regard for protecting the nation's flag from burning, supports the federal funding of such great works of art as "Piss Christ" in which a crucifix is set in a jar of urine and offers no protection for the Bible. Dhimmitude has finally come into the open in the House of Representatives.

I came across the following quotation by William Cobbett, I don't know who Mr. Cobbett is or was, but the quotation allows itself open to modern interpretation and application:

"...the difference between a resident native gentry, attached to the soil, known to every farmer and labourer from their childhood, frequently mixing with them in those pursuits where all artificial distinctions are lost, practising hospitality without ceremony, from habit and not calculation; and a gentry only now-and-then resident at all, having no relish for country delights, foreign in their manners, distant and haughty in their behaviour, looking to the soil only for its rents, viewing it as a mere object of speculation, unacquainted with its cultivators, despising them and their pursuits, and relying, for influence, not upon the good will of the vicinage, but upon the dread of their power."

When was the last you saw your assemblyman, congressman or senator in your neighborhood?

I need a drink.

My Poor Fanny!

We are occasionally visited here at Bloody Nib Manor by Jane Austen. Such visits are always welcomed. Well, actually, the ever young Countess Nib usually finds some excuse to duck out of the visits because she finds Miss Austen not quite deep enough for her tastes. But that's what a university education and a taste for adventure gets one. The ever lovely Lady Nib looks forward to Miss Austen's visits eagerly, and especially enjoys Miss Austen's telling of Pride and Prejudice and Emma. Your truly, on the other hand, finds the recounting of Mansfield Park most rewarding and pleasing.

Let's face it. Lizzie Bennett and Emma Woodhouse are easy to like. Miss Bennett is sharp, ironic (in the good sense) and is intolerant of nonsense. Miss Woodhouse is charming, silly and is probably more like all of us than we would care to admit. Fanny Price, on the other hand, is often seen as dull, Dull and DULL. It's really quite unfair because poor Fanny is honest, sincere and transparent. She is, in a sense, Jane Bennett without the county wide fame as a beauty in a bad situation.

Some people dislike Fanny Price because she's always right. Others dislike her because she is not ironic or arch. But what they don't realize is that Fanny, after being proven right in her assessment does not parade through the grounds of Mansfield Park waving a flag and shouting, "I was right! You were wrong!". Or after she does the moral and Christian thing she does not sneer at the person who did the wrong thing. Fanny just goes on being right because she is right and doesn't realize that anybody with any lick of sense could be wrong. Fanny is one of those very rare people who actually lives the life she professes and professes her life by her life.

If you've read the novel you'll know that Fanny Price is almost like a rock in a stream. Life occurs around her while she seems to be immovable. And in her steadfast adherence to her Christian values (and Fanny is probably a much more conservative Christian than Jane Austen was) she reveals the silliness and stupidity of her cousins and the Crawfords. She does not point the long bony finger and say , "You're wrong." She simply says, "I cannot," or "I shall not." By implication she says, "I don't think what you're doing is a good idea and I'll have no part of it. But if you insist on doing a stupid thing, that's you're business."

The Crawfords are the societal termites in Mansfield Park, and Fanny sees through their glitz and glamour without realizing it. She senses that there is more iron pyrite about them than gold simply because Fanny has a good foundation. She's been through the mill in a way that the Bertrams haven't. Fanny is, to be crass, the Rocky of the Jane Austen ouvre'.

In the section of Mansfield Park dealing with the production of the home theatrical, Fanny is asked to play a part in the play. Fanny refuses and explains her refusal with the words, " I cannot act." And there is the charm of Fanny. She cannot act. The Fanny one sees is the Fanny one gets. Fanny will not act and she senses that there is something a little hinckey about people who can act. In times past professional actors, while patronized by the public, were considered somewhat morally suspect simply because person who could act the part of someone they were not was considered insincere and superficial. Amateur theatricals were considered, by some, to be the thin edge of the wedge toward a dissolute life. Ask yourself this question: Is Catherine Zeta Jones the hottie she portrays in films or is she the matron raising a child? Or does she even know herself? Fanny Price knows who she is and doesn't bother trying to be who she isn't.

Fanny Price is that, by modern standards, unpopular creature -- a sincere and honest person, and a Christian to boot. What's wrong with that?

If you're not the reading type I would suggest that you watch the BBC film version of Mansfield Park instead of the film version that came out a few years ago. It's more faithful to the book and is less infected by political correctness.

And next week it's Anne Elliot. Can any woman who marries a sailor be wrong?

Everybody Together! "Kum Ba Yaaa..."

"Tolerance" is one of those words which has undergone a metamorphosis over the past forty or so years. And since the meaning of the word has changed the concept has changed. And they have both changed for the worse because no word, in the vernacular, has taken its place.

The definition, at the ground level and in everyday language, was "to put up with" or "to bear." An example would be best illustrated by a father dealing with his teenage daughter's attempts to be fashionable. He will tolerate his daughter ironing her naturally curly hair to straighten it despite the fact that he thinks that it looks silly and stupid. He will not tolerate her going to school, or anyplace else in public for that matter, wearing a pair of hot pink hot pants. In the first case he grudgingly puts up with her folly. In the second, the wearing of hot pink hot pants is something he will not accept or allow. Using the older meaning of the word, a dog tolerated a certain number of fleas, the human body tolerated a certain amount of arsenic, a nation could tolerate a certain amount of attacks from within or without and not suffer any great harm.

The contemporary meaning has developed to mean happy acceptance and sometimes even encouragement to the point of unhealth. The fictional father not only smiles when his daughter ruins her hair, he buys her hot pink hot pants to wear to church and perhaps even a Wonderbra or breast implants to validate her burgeoning "womanhood" at the age of fourteen. One's Cocker Spaniel becomes a walking flea circus. We sprinkle arsenic over our Cheerios in the morning and a nation not only allows its enemies to attack from within and without, but encourages such attacks in the name of tolerance and being "nonjudgemental."

The result is that the daughter becomes an unmarried mother at the age of fifteen, the dog dies because of the loss of blood and introduction of diseases from the fleas, our hair suddenly turns grey and we die painful deaths because we've poisoned ourselves because we over-estimated our tolerance for arsenic. And a nation loses its culture, identity and heritage and becomes something antithetical to its historical form and ethos.

In today's world we are expected to be happily tolerant of every damn thing and to spend that time we used to spend grinding our teeth and cursing under our breath being proud of ourselves that we're more all-encompassing in our love for the various idiocies of mankind than is God. The mushy Left has re-defined the word because the mushy Left stands for nothing. The media is mushy Left. The mushy Left is like those hokey Lotharios who, in high school, said, in order to impress the girls, things like "I love love," or "I love the world." The mushy Left is unknowingly suicidal in its pursuit of "love." The hard Left, represented by your various Marxists, Trotskyites, Maoists and Senderos at least have the sense of self preservation to find certain things intolerable and other things, such as the breathing of people unhappy with their regimes but silent and laboring in quiet despair, tolerable. The same holds true for the hard Right. The soft Right and the middle have traditionally had certain standards and would tolerate a certain amount of variation from those standards. Examples would be the antics of Baudlaire in 19th century France, Bertrand Russell in 20th century Britain, and Norman Mailer in the US. Each of the aforementioned had their artistic or scientific talents, but they were all, in their own way, termites within their respective societies. But their nations were strong enough to withstand their onslaughts because, try as they might, the termites were unable to get to the foundations of the societies.

The Netherlands, on the other hand, early fell to the tyranny of "tolerance." In the late 19th century one of the most influential leaders of Holland was Abraham Kuyper. Kuyper was, before his entry into politics, was a Reform preacher and theologian. Under his leadership Holland was a conservative, Christian country that tolerated other religions. Holland, while not gaining the ascendancy and world wide power of Britain, France or Germany, prospered peacefully. Holland was known for its cleanliness, tolerance (in the old meaning) and prosperity. Since then Holland has become, especially Amsterdam, known as a rather dirty country where the canals are littered with condoms and hypodermic needles, hashish is freely available and where one motion picture maker (Theo Van Gogh) and one politician (Pym Fortuyn) have been assassinated by Muslim extremists. And two other politicians have been forced to live in hiding because of threats by Muslim extremists. Holland has reaped the fruits of their "tolerance." The country not only put up with the non-Dutch values of Mohammedan immigrants, it encouraged the difference. In the past the Dutch would have told the immigrants, "You can have your religion, but we fully expect you to behave like Dutchmen and Christians. If you can't do that then get the hell out." Up until very very recently the Dutch have practiced the religion of Tolerationism and the result has been a national fear of Islam within their own country. Go figger.

In the name of toleration we are expected to smile while Honda Civics with speakers bigger than the engines drive by our houses booming out rap and hip hop so loud that it rattles the windows and loosens the foundations of one's manse. We're expected to appreciate taggers decorating our garages. When some pinhead PhD. appears on television to tell us that Christians are evil because they say that Muslims are going to Hell while Muslims try to send them there we're supposed to nod and approve of said pinhead's profundity.

If you had the misfortune of attending a Christian summer camp in the 60s you probably had the misfortune to sing the song Kum Ba Ya. It was, and is, a simple and simplistic song that a child should abandon after learning London Bridge is Falling Down. The conservative churches abandoned the song long ago, while the Seven Sisters keep wheezing it out Sunday after Sunday. The dictators of tolerance want us all to gather around the campfire and soulfully and sincerely sing Kum Ba Ya as a sign or our tolerance and inclusiveness. We here at Bloody Nib Manor opted out of that nonsense long ago. We'll keep singing Onward! Christian Soldiers and not feel bad about it. And tolerance (in the contemporary sense) is something up with which we will not put.

A Little Housekeeping

Your faithful correspondent has added an address to the list of links on the Bloody Nib blog. It is the daily comic by Chris Muir entitled Day By Day. Not only does Mr. Muir have a good sense of humor about things political and non-political, he draws a pretty good babe.

Wretchard, the master of the Belmont Club, has been having trouble with his server and with Blogger. He's set up another site to get his word out. Gates of Vienna has the new, hopefully, temporary address. The Baron and Dymphna do yeomen's work on keeping us all up to date on what's going on.

Theodore Dalrymple, a physician who works within the British prison and welfare system, and a fine writer, has a new book out that may be of interest if you have the jack to put out for it:Amazon.com: Books: Our Culture, What's Left of It : The Mandarins and the Mass . The local broadsheet, the LA Dogtrainer, had a review of said book in it's Friday edition and gave it a fairly negative review because Dr. Dalrymple expects people to behave up to a standard instead of the standard being lowered to the degenerate. That must mean that it's pretty good.

Up for tomorrow: The trouble with tolerance. And poor (and heroic)Fanny Price for all you JA fans out there.

I've Got a Finger For Ya, Indra

This bit of controversy got under the Bloody Nib Manor radar, but yours truly does not pay much attention to the business world because I hold the opinion that the problem with socialism is socialism and the problem with capitalism is capitalists. But the story got through the filter and it may make you want to reconsider guzzling Pepsi and switch to iced coffee or iced tea. The story is this: Indra Nooyi, a high level executive with PepsiCo, made a speech at the Columbia Business school in which she likened the US to the middle finger of a hand which is, or can be, unwisely flown alone. Here is a link to the actual speech:TED J . Miss Nooyi, on the PepsiCo website, has issued a backtracking explanation for her remarks. You can decide for yourself whether the explanation is sincere.

Meanwhile, Victor Davis Hanson has addressed this issue:Victor Davis Hanson on Anti-Americanism on National Review Online . Mr. Hanson is a professor of history in the University of California system and the author of several books ranging from the history of the wars of the ancient Greeks to the Mexican invasion of California. He is usually a rather calm, though sharp, voice of conservative values. Miss Nooyi's speech has managed to raise his blood pressure, and he has said something that I wish I had said. I only wish that he had brought up Benizar Bhutto, the former president of Pakistan. During her tenure as president she was pro-Western and wanted to bring Pakistan into the Western world. Now that she's out of power and that the madrassas have seemed to gained the ascendancy in Pakistan she's suddenly become a much more devout Muslim woman than she was ten years ago, albeit one yearning for the reins of power, with little good to say about the US.

And while I'm writing about commerce I might as well spout off about the Paris Hilton Carl's Jr. commercial. There has been a big ruckus raised over this bit of fluff. Some people call it soft core pornography and worse. The commercial, if anything, makes me lose my appetite, but I've always found Miss Hilton's celebrity a mystery in the same way I've found Donald Trump's a riddle. Miss Hilton is not particularly pretty. In fact, one could say that she is rather plain. She's not got a memorable figure unless one has a taste for twelve year old boys. She's not shown a great intellect or acting ability. And I don't find the commercial pornographic. I find it silly. It's like watching a fourteen year old girl trying to get the attention of the sixteen year old boy across the street. The same gag was pulled in Cool Hand Luke and it was much more effective then.

The point is, instead of pitching a bitch about the commercial why not just turn the channel and not buy anything from Carl's Jr?

It's money that talks to business. Not letters to the editor. It holds true for Carl's Jr., Pepsi or cricket.

"You Hurt My Feeeeelings!"

The Italian writer, Oriana Fallaci, is facing trial in Italy on charges of defaming Islam. One of the comments for which she is to be tried appears in her book "The Strength of Reason" in which she calls Islam "a pool...that never purifies."

The complaint was lodged by an Italian Islamic activist of Scottish origin named Adel Smith who seems to make a career of using the courts to try to undermine what remains of Christian culture in Italy while at the same time promoting dhimmitude for non-Islamic persons. He has been involved in several other court cases in the past as described here:BBC NEWS Europe Storm over Italy crucifix ruling and here:Fresco Fiasco .

Last year Brigitte Bardot was fined for "inciting hate" in France:Brigitte Bardot fined for inciting racial hatred - MORE NEWS AND FEATURES - MS .

Toleration apparently only goes one way in Europe: the Islamic way.

Meanwhile Christians in Saudi Arabia are being arrested for worshipping in private and are accused of spreading "poison."

What This Country Needs...

Tobacco, here at Bloody Nib Manor, is a welcomed commodity. We realize the physically deleterious effects of the weed, but we also realize that the world would be a much more peaceful place if more people lit up a Camel instead of rode one. The ever lovely Lady Nib is still known to light up a fag, as are Countess Nib and Sir Dannnny. Yours truly gave up ciggies some years ago, but I still enjoy a pipe of good tobacco that is able to drive the faint hearted from the room while I and my real friends enjoy a pint or two.

Until about ten years ago yours enjoyed cigars regularly. During a time of young marriage I regularly bought boxes of Punch Maduro Rothschild cigars on a regular basis. At that time a box of fifty cost fifty cents per cigar, or twenty-five dollars. At that time, young in my trade, young as a man and making enough to cover my rent with one week's pay, twenty-five dollars did not seem extravagant. A good cigar at the end of a long day at the mill was the icing on the cake.

But now, in my middle age, I find the cost of a good cigar prohibitive. I don't know if it is because I've grown older and wiser, or because the cost has just gotten to be too much since cigars have become acceptable in a way that they weren't and cigarettes aren't. Even cheap cigars cost too much. It's a sad commentary on modern life that the combination of taxes and the increased of cost due to trendiness have driven the cost of cigars so high.

From the porch of the Manor it's a sad thing to see. Those who have no business smoking cigars can afford them and those who really appreciate them can't afford them.

What Comes Between Him and His Calvins

This week the British newspaper, The Sun (owned by Rupert Murdoch, a man who has made a lot of money by not under-estimating the taste of the reading public), published pictures of Saddam Hussein wearing nothing but his skivvy shorts. Of course, a ruckus has broken out. The usual charge is that such a photo is a violation of the man's dignity.

To be blunt, the charge is nonsense. Think back, and not that far back, to when, before the capture of the Baathist Behemoth, it was not unusual to see Saddam in films taken at the beach or river or where ever it was that he went to the beach, that the old fellow was filmed, by his own photographers, wearing Speedo swimming trunks. Even then it wasn't a pretty sight. What's the difference between BVDs and Speedos? Spandex?

The real crime involved is that some so far nameless soldier or Marine has, in exchange for a few pieces of silver, reminded the world that our favorite ex-dictator is still alive and well, and apparently has been given a ration of hair dye regularly. If the photos hadn't been published it's probable that in the West M. Hussein would have been thought of as Rudolph Hess was in the late 40s i.e., "Is that guy still alive?" The crime isn't that to whatever Baathist and Saddamites are active in Iraq are offended by the "humiliation" of said Hussein. Who cares what they think? It's like worrying about what unrepentant Nazis thought about Himmler being hanged or what Stalinists thought about Yeltsin. Why worry about what bad people think? They're bad. They've voluntarily placed themselves outside the bounds of civilized behavior. If a dog decides that my leg is a chew toy I really don't much care what the dog thinks when I bonk it over the skull with a walking stick.

The crime is that the dogface or Jarhead broke the rules for no good reason other than to buy a trick car or a ring for his or her sweetheart. And that person should probably spend the summer busting rocks at Levenworth.

Look at it this way. M. Hussein is fed well, he gets to practice his religion (whatever that truly is), and he seems to get a better quality of sadamatas (Japanese for underwear)than your average soldier, sailor Marine or airman. And he's not being shot at.

Can't Get No Metamuscil

The band, The Rolling Stones, has never been known for its modesty. Enough years ago to see one's offspring transform from infant to college baccalaureate the band declared itself "The World's Greatest Rock 'n Roll Band." There's nothing wrong with self-promotion, per se, but hyperbole regarding one's self is just outre'. But the Stones (I'll just use the plural for simplicity's sake) have never been known for good taste. Mick Jagger and his associates have made a career of pushing what they perceived to be the envelope. Songs about premarital sex, shagging one's friend's wife, allusions to drug use and a constant reaching for eternal teen-ager-hood have been their staple fare. Their style has been a rook's nest from blues, real rock 'n roll, Beatles inspired material, country-western and anything else they could lay their mitts on. They've portrayed themselves the bad boy Cockneys of rock despite the fact that Mr. Jagger grew up quite middle class, as did Charlie Watts, Bill Wyman (now no longer with the band) and Brian Jones (now dead).

Needless to say, your faithful correspondent has never been a big Rolling Stones fan. They always seemed a bit too posed, a bit too self-manufactured for my taste. They weren't real rock 'n roll, they weren't real blues. They just didn't seem real. But I must be wrong because so many of my generation fell, have fallen and are still falling for their stuff. And they, the Stones, seem to never have grown. They sing of a fantasy life that is stuck between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five. What originality they have had is the same as that as shown by Dan Brown in his novels The DaVinci Code and Angels and Demons; other people have done the grunt work and they put the beads on a not very strong string.

This week, I think, it was announced that the Rolling Stones will go on yet another tour. That means that it is time for numerous middle aged men and women will pull their Rolling Stones tour t-shirts and try to stretch them once again over expanding bellies and waistlines, pay out exorbitant prices for tickets and try to score some boo from their kids' friends in order to get that "Sixties Feeling" again while standing cheek by jowl in a stadium watching a group of men ranging from the sixties to the late fifties acting like, and playing songs about being, teenagers.

Mick Jagger, it must be admitted, is surprisingly spry for a man of his age. And Keith Richard seems to reflect the life preserving properties of heroin addiction. But it is just all too much. They are, in reality, old men playing teenagers' music that is thirty years old to a bunch of other old or middle aged men and women with fond memories of flat bellies and firm breasts. The music the Stones have produced has not been particularly sophisticated, touching, melodic, original or complicated. They are almost like extended commercial jingles that bounce off the inside of one's skull like the old Alka-Seltzer jingle, "Plop plop fizz fizz. Oh what a relief it is." It is almost embarrassing for your's to hear that the Stones will tour yet once again. It would be like seeing Bridgitte Bardot (as lovely as she is, she's in her seventies) show up at Cannes wearing high heels and a string bikini as if she were the nubile young thing she was in "And God Created Woman." Mme. Bardot has grown up and grown, as have Eric Clapton, Rod Stewart (imagine that!) and Roger Daltry, and as did Sinatra (although Sinatra hung on for ten years too long), Clooney, Como and Bennett. Seeing the Stones tour once again is almost as painful as it was to see Johnny Ray sing "Cry" near the end of his life.

The Stones have been in the habit of naming their tours. And modern music touring usually involves a corporate sponsor such as Coca Cola. I suggest that this tour be called the Viagra Tour to reflect the reality of the needs of the band and their fan base, and that the sponsor be named as Depends. The moment's coming.

Who's Really to Blame?

Now that the dust has settled a bit on the Newsweek/flushed Koran ruckus, it's time to stand back and take a look at who is to blame for what.

The cry in some quarters has been, "Newsweek lied and people died!" The writers and editors at Newsweek didn't lie. They made a mistake. They dropped the ball. They made an error in judgment. They showed themselves as not having the understanding of the Islamic world that they purport to have. They revealed that their hunger to publish a juicy story was greater than their sense of discretion. They showed their gullibility. And they have reaped the rewards or their mistake and/or negligence by being held in temporary derision by portions of the press, opinion makers and a public that is growing ever more skeptical of the establishment press.

One thing Newsweek did not do was cause the deaths of between fifteen and twenty persons during riots in Afghanistan. Newsweek basically spread a rumor that was used as an excuse for those with bad intentions to excite anger and violence against the West. Consider the fact that, as far as I know, Newsweek does not publish in Pushtan or Afghani. Few, if any, of those who rioted are able to read Newsweek in English. They got their information second or third hand. Who knows what the various mullahs or coffeehouse buddies told the rioters? I doubt if it was a verbatim reading of the article. Was there ever increasing bias in this resultingly violent game of telephone?

The only people the rioters have to blame is themselves. Their behavior was primitive, savage and unacceptable by any standard. Even if the Newsweek piece were true there is no excuse. If the story were true they had every right to feel that their religion was insulted and react with vocal protests or shrug their shoulders and say to one another in their souks, "What can you expect from a bunch of infidels?"

But others have fallen prey to mass hysteria recently in religious matters:

When the jolly boys of the Taliban decided to take target practice on giant statues of the Buddha back in 1999/2000 the result among Buddhists in South Asia was violence breaking out...nowhere. Historians and archaeologists wrung their hands over it, but I don't recall a self devouring frenzy taking place.

Or consider this from the May 23 issue of The National Review:

Saudi police busted a secret ring of Christians, arresting 40 Pakistani men women, and children who were praying in a Riyadh apartment. Police found religious books and cassettes and a cross. "These people tried to spread the poison and their beliefs to others," said a police source, "by means of distributing pamphlets and publications." Now that that's all cleared up, on to al-Qaeda.

The result of the above incident was. Well, there wasn't a reaction. Just a collective rolling of eyes despite the fact that the Saudi police source reffed to the Christian faith as "poison."

When Pope John Paul II was shot by a Turk Rome and the Roman Catholic world was wracked by what? Riots? Protests? The burning of Turkish towels and Turkish taffy? No. A lot of prayer was the result.

Apparently many Muslims are more hot headed and thin-skinned than the rest of the world.

Newsweek spilled some gas on the garage floor, and before they could mop it up the Islamic clerics in Afghanistan lit the match. The result was that a lot of people got burnt. People need to excercise care when handling inflammable materials, but they can't always prevent others from taking advantage of their mistakes for bad purposes.

What's an Apology Worth?

When I was in the Navy we used an expression for making a bad mistake. The expression was (and for the faint hearted, please excuse me) "I stepped on my d*ck."

Well, Newsweek stepped on their's with logger's boots. The result of their screw up was riots in Afghanistan and the deaths of fifteen Afghanis: Newsweek says Koran desecration report is wrong - Yahoo! News And the mainstream media says that bloggers are irresponsible.

And while we're in the Middle East. Consider the idea that many, if not most, of the insurgent fighters in Iraq are not even Iraqis:Saudi ‘martyrs’ fuel Iraq’s insurgency - washingtonpost.com Highlights - MSNBC Our "eternal friend," to use President Bush's words, seems to supply a good number of pinheads shooting and bombing our troops and Iraqis. Meanwhile President Bush is photographed holding hands (and even if it was with Tony Blair it would be weird) with the Saudi Prince Abdul Abdullah Emir, or whatever his name is. Christians are persecuted in Saudi Arabia. Women are stoned for adultry in Saudi Arabia.The Saudis preach the Wahabi Muslim doctrine. Saudis are shooting at our men and women and blowing up hard scrabble Iraqis trying to make it from day to day. And our leader holds the hand of a two faced rat.

Don't get me wrong. John Kerry would have been a catamite for the Saudis in particular and the Middle East in general. But George W. Bush, sometimes called the leader of the western world, is despairing. Mr. Bush seems to be unable to see the big picture. The current war is not is not a war against Baathists. It is a war for western civilization.

Mow Your Own Damn Lawn!

Victor Davis Hanson (or perhaps it's Victor Hanson Davis, I can never get the order right) is a man after my own heart. He's a native Prunie and the son of a Jarhead. And he always has something interesting to say about illegal immigration. A case in point is this:A Quick Fix -- Do Your Own Dishes

Good Sermon is Not a Nonsequiter

Since it's the Sabbath Day here at Bloody Nib Manor it is only right and proper for your faithful correspondent to address matters religious.

In a life of over half a century that can be considered mildly Scaramouche-like, yours has visited a good number of churches. He has even been a member of three of them. In all that time he has heard two good preachers. One was a Presbyterian who managed to talk for twenty minutes on the first five words of the Model Prayer (sometimes called the Lord's Prayer). The other is the Primitive Baptist elder of a church of which yours is a member. In this assessment your correspondent is not including visiting preachers. Only preachers in their own pulpits have been considered.

Most of the preachers your faithful correspondent has heard over the years have been fair to middlin'. During a series of visits to a United Methodist Church yours learned more about the family history and heritage of the preacher than yours knew about his own family history. Not a lot of Bible. A lot of genealogy. During a sojourn at a local Reformed Church one found one turning the pages of one's Bible so many times during the course of the sermon that by the time the sermon finished one forgot where one started. Yours has heard sermons referencing Winnie the Pooh and the comic strip Peanuts (Get Fuzzy would probably be a better choice for modern life) An Anglican priest of your's acquaintance spent more time in his sermons referring to the Caroline Divines than he did to the words of our Lord. Many modern preachers seem to have lost the ability to preach well in their search to fill the pews.

Well, if you're interested in good preaching and have found your local church lacking in such, you might consider checking out this link:SermonAudio.com - faith cometh by hearing.

A Little Strum and Dang

We here at Bloody Nib Manor are not a particularly musical lot. Occasionally a harmonica will come out for a much demanded imitation of the Royal Scotsman steaming north, or a vocal rendition of "Jerusalem" before a cricket match. But mostly it's a matter of turning the dial of the wireless to catch the dulcet tones of Vera Lynn or, perhaps, listening to an Elgar piece broadcast from the Royal Albert Hall on a Sabbath afternoon. We have been much the poorer for our inability to think of a key as something to open a door instead of a signature on a musical staff.

A few mornings ago, after a long night spent at the mill, I happened to turn on the television and tuned into what is jokingly referred to as the news. Between the stories of death and destruction, and ducks trying to cross a freeway, a truly important story was reported. It concerned a school in Indiana where one of the teachers has formed a novelty band made up of children ranging in ages from seven to fourteen. The band is called the Keystrummers. Imagine seeing more than a dozen lads and lassies strumming ukueleles, playing washboards, honking bulb horns and singing the old chestnut "Five Foot Two" while having a good time. It was fantastic! The music was fun and the idea was even more fun and very important for the following reasons. They were learning music while having fun, they weren't sitting in front of televisions or computers, they weren't listening to rap and dressing and trying to act like 50 Cent or Emenim. The boys and girls were wearing Hawaiian shirts -- not enough cheap jewelry to make it look like they ran through the jewelry department at Wal Mart with a magnet or droopy drawers or striking poses like cheap ghetto gangsters (and, if one is going to pretend to be a gangster, why try to look like a Crip instead of a Mafioso? Mafia guys dress better).

The Keystrummers have a website:Welcome to The Key Strummers! Give the site a look and, if you have a little extra in the coin purse, you might want to consider making a contribution. The learning and appreciation of music is, in your correspondent's opinion, a better investment of time than promoting midnight basketball.

Arthur Godfrey, not one of my favorite television personalities but he was right occasionally, once said something to the effect of, "A person cannot be mad or sad while playing the uke." Perhaps the opinion of a Hawaiian may differ, but I doubt it. Could the uke be the key to world peace? May the Islamic world be calmed by the dropping of ukes throughout the Middle East and Southeast Asia?

Consider the fact that during the 1910s and 1920s, during the height of the uke's popularity in the continental United States, popular songs tended to be more happy and upbeat than they now are. Songs such as "They're Wearing Them Higher in Hawaii" and "Somebody Stole My Gal," were the popular hits. None of this present day nonsense about bustin' caps and bustin' booty and bustin' teeth. And those days were, in fact, much rougher days than now.

It is sometimes said that the 17th and 18th centuries were the centuries of the amateur. Many scientific discoveries and some of the foundational literature of the English language were made by amateurs. Examples would be Ben Franklin and John Bunyan. The present day is the age of the professional. We turn on the wireless and hear the exceptions in musical talent. When a person picks up a guitar and doesn't sound like Ted Nugent in two weeks they feel that their musical talent is nil, when, in fact, it may be perfectly good, just not exceptional. The uke, along with the harmonica, is the perfect amateurs instrument. In the course of daily life one rarely hears the professional uke player, and so one is able to play along as one wishes without measuring oneself against the best. The uke is a jumping flea that makes one laugh even at mistake.

Your faithful correspondent's mother, the ever lovely Countess Nib, has stated that she likes the sound of the uke, even when played badly. Be it known that Countess Nib has high standards in music, preferring Wagner over Henry Mancini and Perry Como over Sinatra And if she has appreciation for the lowly uke the instrument must have something going for it.

Ian Whitcomb, musicologist and performer, is a uke fan. Ian, for those of you of an age may remember, recorded the song, "You Really Turn Me On" back in the 60s. You might consider looking at his website:Ian Whitcomb - The Foremost Ukuelele, Ragtime, and Tin Pan Alley Recording Arti

Jim Beloff has taken on the job of being a missionary for the uke. He has written several music books for uke, and he also sells ukes on his website. Two of the ukes he sells are the Fluke and the Fleas, the uke versions of Ovation guitars. Jim's website has a lot more than just sales. He's a treasure of uke lore and knowledge and probably deserves a knighthood from the Queen for his efforts. His website is:Ukuelele Music Lovers and Ukuelele Players Love Flea Market Music and Jim Beloff

Finally, the late Israel Kamakawiwo'ole recorded probably the most beautiful and bittersweet version of "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" with a uke accompaniment. The recording is on the CD Facing the Future and is available from Amazon.com. Iz showed, in his body of work, that the uke is a complete instrument that can be fun or touching, but never angry.

So, go through your grandmother's (or great grandmother's) attic and see if you can find a uke. Or go through your old stuff. Maybe you can find your old Mousegeetar. Once you start strumming you'll be doing a lot less danging. Who knows? You may be the next George Formby.

Now if I can only find the sheet music to "Jerusalem."

Sabato Gigante 2

This past week has been a busy one in our elected officials' never-ending campaign to kow tow to illegal immigrants and their defenders. This despite the fact that recent poll conducted by the Pew company has shown that 88% of Americans think that illegal immigration is either a "very serious" or "somewhat serious" problem. Our hired masters insist on trying to convince us that it is in the best interests of the nation as a whole to have a labor pool that drives down the wages of construction and meat packing workers, takes jobs from teenagers trying to turn a buck mowing lawns or trying to get entry level jobs, and use emergency rooms as a form of primary medical care. They also ask the question, "Who will do the work that Americans don't want to do such as field work and cleaning houses?" One wonders if the cotton plantation owners in Georgia asked the same thing in 1860.

But to get to cases. This week the ever popular California assemblyman, Gil Cedillo (aka One Bill Gil), proposed a new law that would prevent the various police agencies in the state from confiscating the cars of illegal aliens driving without driving licenses. For everyone else, citizen or legal alien, the old rules would still apply i.e., if you drive with no license you say good-bye to your shinney can for a while. The L.A. Daily News has a story about Gil's bill:L.A. Daily News - News . A tip o' the lid to Dannnny49.

Jack Dunphy, a pseudonymous author for the on-line version of the National Review and a Los Angeles police officer, has a few choice words about the bill:Jack Dunphy on Illegal Immigration & California on National Review Online.

The Minuteman Project, which watched the Arizona-Mexican border for a few weeks last month, managed, by their efforts to reduce the number of illegals crossing the border. The area the Minutemen watched experienced a drastic reduction of border jumpers by doing nothing more than being there and calling the Border Patrol when illegals were spotted. Much to the disappointment of the liberal establishment and the illegal immigrant apologists, there were no incidents of beer swillers shooting up packs of illegals in hidden canyons. The Minutemen, just sat in lawn chairs with binoculars and cell phones. Many Border Patrolmen have, off the record, expressed their appreciation for the Minutemen's efforts. Officially, well, the Washington Times has this story: Border Patrol told to stand down in Arizona - The Washington Times: Nation/Pol

Finally, two of the biggest bloviators in the United States Senate have come up with a nifty idea to solve the illegal immigration problem: Just make them all legal. Senator Edward Kennedy (proof that all Irishmen aren't drunks) and Senator John McCain (he must be smart because he was a POW), two men who bring to mind the old Ken Curtis song, "Ten Gallon Hat and Half Pint Head", have, for their own lickspittle reasons, made an interesting proposal. Reuters has the story:Politics News Article Reuters.com

If you can, get hold of the latest issue of the National Review. If you can't, shame on you. The cover story is their ten point proposal for dealing with illegal immigration. It looks pretty good to me. And make sure to check out Mark Steyn's column at the back. He writes something that most politicians and political writers won't say: The front line of the battle against militant and fundamentalist Islam is not in the Middle East. It's in Europe. What we're facing is the gates of Vienna and the Battle of Lepeto. But we don't have an Admiral Andrea Doria to lead us.

Leave the Money on the Dresser

Imagine for a moment that, after being handed your mail in the morning, you read over the various envelopes. Among the usual daily fair such as an invitation to take tea with Queen Elizabeth, Queen Beatrix, Queen Marguerite along with Kenny Kingston (Oh! Sweet Spirit!) channeling Princess Diana, a bill from the farrier, and a selection of fabric samples from a firm on Saville Row, one finds a letter from Senator Bill Frist. Bill Frist! The Senate Majority Leader! Oh, happiness and joy! Does he want you to advise him on national policy? Perhaps you'll be guest of honor at a Senatorial banquet.

One opens the envelope eagerly and finds, not a note of thanks and appreciation just for being one's self, but something called Senate Majority Leader's Survey. In other words, it is a document that purports to express interest on the part of the Republican Party in one's opinions and values just because one is just so darn important. And (what a coincidence!) there is, on the back of said questionnaire, a form to fill out just in case one has an extra $25 to $500 to give those nobles who parade under the sign of the elephant. "Just tell me what you want, big boy. And don't forget to leave the cash on the dresser."

The questionnaire is made up of forty-five questions divided up into 9 general topics ranging from Values Issues (a dodgey issue, no matter what the party) to National and Homeland Security to Energy Policy and environment. An issue that is not addressed is illegal immigration, but that only makes sense because cheap labor is a good thing for such big businesses as food processing, farming and construction even if the illegal immigrant labor is, in fact and in truth, made up of criminals who have broken the law by entering the land without permission.

But among the ironplate questions the following two are of interest:

1.) Should we reduce spending for programs like farm price supports, Veteran's benefits, Medicare, Medicaid, Social Security, etc. to balance the federal budget?

2.)Should we reduce spending for programs like education, research, FBI, Coast Guard, Customs Service, Housing and Transportation to balance the budget?

The choices given for reply are Yes, No, Undecided. Look at the questions again. Do each of them seem to be rather broad in subject matter to be answered Yes or No? What do Veteran's benefits have to do with farm price supports? Or the Coast Guard with education?

Methinks I smell a rat. Again.

Well, it's off to tea. Don't want to keep the ladies waiting.

The Banner of Truth

There are some magazines that are widely read that really don't deserve to be. An example is People magazine. For the most part the magazine consists of articles and many, many photographs of celebrities, who, for the most part, are inherently uninteresting.

There are other magazines that have small circulations that should be more widely read. The Banner of Truth is one such publication that comes to mind.

The Banner of Truth, which published its 500th issue this month, and coincidentally celebrates its 50th year of publication, is a magazine dedicated to the study and discussion of classical Reform Christianity. It is a small magazine, usually not more than 36 pages. But the pages are full of carefully written text; not photos. The magazine has probably, over the years, done more to revive interest in, and publish works by the great Puritan preachers and teachers of the past such as John Owen, John Bunyan and Richard Sibbes.

This month's issue prints the first of a projected four part series entitled Redemptive History and the Preached Word by Stefan T. Lindblad. It is an article many a preacher would benefit by and many church members must read if they want to find out why they are bored and/or frustrated by topical sermons that kick off with quotes from Winnie the Pooh or greeting card philosophy.

The magazine is hard to find in bookstores, even Christian bookstores. It's not colorful, busy, youth or entertainment oriented. It's meat, not milk.

The people who produce the magazine deserve a great deal of gratitude. Sinclair Ferguson, Iain H. Murray, Walter J. Chantry, Maurice J. Roberts and many others have all done heroic and often unthanked work in promoting the theology and doctrines of the Reformation.

There is an on-line version of The Banner of Truth. The address is Banner of Truth Trust General Articles . From this link one can subscribe to the magazine, order books and read articles that aren't published in the magazine. To spend time navigating through the site is definitely not wasted time.

Congratulations to all at Banner of Truth for holding firm to the truth of Christianity and not changing with the times.

Beeeeer

Today at the Sunday meeting, the elder of Little Zion Primitive Baptist Church, Joe Holder, mentioned that he had made the mistake of reading the Bloody Nib and noted that your faithful correspondent had an interest in beer. He told your correspondent that his son-in-law was a home brewer and that I might enjoy talking to said son-in-law.

Unfortunately for yours truly, the extended Holder clan had left the meeting hall by the time that I had taken care of business with some other P.B.s. I would have very much enjoyed discussing the world of hops, barley and malt with the young man. And to add to my sure knowledge that the lad is a benighted soul, I found out that he's a Vespa motor scooter fan, as am I (the world has never been the same since the demise of the Norton Commando and scooters, as silly as they are offer a viable alternative) who makes his way through the countryside on the major Italian contribution to modern life. I hope to exchange a few opinions with the young buck and learn a few things from him. And my former admiration for Elder Holder has increased. If he can put up with an amateur brewmaster and a Vespaist he's shown himself to be a man of great understanding and patience.

Having gone through the above preamble, the point of this post is to list my favorite beers.

One's preference in beer, of course, depend on personal taste. The important word is "taste." The big three, Budweiser, Miller and Coors, to your critic, have no taste. Genetically I should prefer Bud since my family has many generations of Missourians in the past. But Bud, no matter what type, is watery. Miller High Life tastes like old tires and Miller Draft is an imitation of Bud. Coors, during a misspent youth or listening to Credence Clearwater and the Eagles, was called Colorado Kool-Aid, because it had no taste. I like beer that tastes like something. Corona, Modelo, Tecate? Blah.

In a years long search I have managed to find that I don't like lager or pilsner. I much prefer ales, porters, stouts and bitters. I like a beer I can chew on. In other words, the English type beers. If my intention was to get drunk I think that a much better investment would be a bottle of Johnny Walker Black or Tullimore Dew and just take a couple of quick shots and save all the work of downing a bunch of beer. But, of course, your truly never drinks with the intention of getting drunk.

My all time favorite beer is Ballard Bitter brewed by the same company that makes Red Hook in Seattle. It's bitter and sublime and tastes great with Italian food. And if my dear niece living in Seattle had any sense of pity on her poor old uncle she'd send a case down here to the land of the lost.-monthly. Next is Guinness Stout from the tap in Ireland. It's like drinking cream. Then, in descending order, Stockyard Stout, Mac Tarnahan Porter, Samuel Smith's Oatmeal Stout, Samuel Smith's Nut Brown Ale, Rasputin Imperial Russian Stout, Fat Weasel Ale, Black Hart Stout, Mississippi Mud Black and Tan, and finally Old Inebriator (one is good for an afternoon) Stout. Old Inebriator was found by Sir Bob of La Puente, the uncle of Lady Nib, and a beer hearty drinker, to be a beer too strong for the Bud guzzler. It has, in my opinion, too much of an alcohol taste to be a great beer. Maybe it should be re-assigned to a mild whiskey category. Then it would, and I don't intend to appear anti-suffragette, could be called a lady's whiskey.

In the rating of beers your faithful correspondent has always made it a point to get input from Lady Nib, who is not a beer drinker, but who has good taste and a sense of what tastes good. Her ratings agree with mine except she rates Black Hart higher than Old Rasputin.

So, if you are a beer drinker, forget the German, French, Belgian (they all taste like bubble gum) and Italian stuff. The English type brews have the taste that makes memories.

But what do I know? I prefer blended Scotches to the single malt stuff when I can afford it. But the best is Irish. And I'm not an Irish-American, so there's no ethnic loyalty there.

Watching Car Wrecks

When your faithful correspondent began this journal the intention was to mainly watch the developments in the world of national and international politics, and report and comment on those instances that evinced the deterioration of the cognitive abilities of those who are reputed to be our leaders. In other words, to comment upon the circuses that call themselves governments. But watching politicians slang and snipe at one another is like watching a couple of streetwalkers battling one another over a potential client. It's entertaining for a few minutes until one realizes that the debased are not the tarts, who are just trying to make a living doing something they know how to do in exchange for a bit of coin. It is the customer, who encourages the soiled doves by his custom, who is debased. Our politicians whisper promises of never ending nights of wondrous bliss if we give them our money and votes, and they will fight like the Kilkenney cats to get them. Then, once they've stuffed the cash down their bras and the votes into their pocket books they teeter away on their high heels making promises of nights of wondrous bliss to another customer who is diametrically different from the person they just gifted with the pox. The poor newly pox ridden sot, while hitching up his trousers, yells to the jade, "You said you loved me!" And the fallen woman replies, "I did. For five minutes. A girl has to make a living. If you want to get married, find a nice girl." And so our "victim" leans against the lamppost crying about how unfair life is, not realizing that if he'd get off the sixty year long bender he's been on, gird up his loins instead of air them, he might be able to come to his senses and take care of his own problems and manage to ditch the satyriasis and not have to rely on some tart to give him the feel goods for five minutes. And five minutes is stretching it.

The definition of pornography is, roughly, "the writing about whores." To be absolutely honest, having taken a look at the current political scene it has been decided that writing about politics is an exercise in pornography and it would probably be more fulfilling and noble to write honest pornography. At least the characters have, well, more character. They stand for something, even if it is sin. To paraphrase (and probably misconstrue) Martin Luther, "If you're going to sin, sin boldly." Besides, dirty stories are more honest than the average politician because they don't promise to change one's life. They just promise to arouse one's sinful nature and selfishness while the politicos promise to fulfill those things and then say "tough luck" when they don't.

Last year at a special meeting at my church a visiting elder, David Pyles, in his sermon, referred to our elected masters as "filthy politicians." Elder Pyles, when he made the comment regarding politicians, was not trying to rouse up the local Primitive Baptists to political action. It was a remark made in passing, but it was a truth that anyone, Christian or not, could understand and agree with.

So, not wanting to be a habitual pornographer it has been decided that the culture in general and my particular interests will be addressed here. There's enough ink and electrons being spilled on the pornography of politics. And others are much better at it than I.

Probably Better Than Survivor

The Anchoress has some interesting comments about a recently aired reality program in Britain: http://theanchoressonline.com/2005/05/04/reality-tv-in-a-benedictine-monastery/. It would be interesting to have it shown in the US.

Whither Indentation?

Readers of this blog, or most blogs for that matter, may have noticed that the beginning lines of the paragraphs are not indented. This is due to the way the word processor of the blog is set up and not due to any decision of mine. The lack of indentation seems to be the coming style and I for one find it awful. One sees this trend in magazines, some books and many office letters. It seems that the current fashion is to identify the beginning of a paragraph by leaving a blank line above it as shown below.

I don't know how this trend started, but I have two guesses. The first is that when word processors came into use the typists decided it would be faster to hit the Return key of the keyboard twice instead of hitting Return and then Tab. The second is that those in charge of designing the way that books and magazines look became infected by the Bauhaus school of thought. Now paragraphs are individual blocks of type joined only by the fact that they are on the same page. It is an attempt to make the printed word into something like the Worker's Block housing envisioned by Walter Gropius. And the printed version is just as ugly.

A paragraph is a collection of thoughts connected by theme or topic. The indentation is, to me at least, the visual indication of a mental pause, the taking of a breath or the stepping in if clutch before the writing starts back in first gear. The lack of indentation is tantamount to grinding gears from a stop. It's jarring. Thoughts in a paragraph take time to develop. The current style makes it appear that the idea is developed from the first word.

The use of a space after a paragraph makes it appear that the subject or topic of the paragraph is unrelated to the previous paragraph. One almost expects to see a number in the middle of the blank line as if another section were being started; perhaps even another chapter. It interrupts the flow of reading. It doesn't indicate a downshifting. It looks almost like a momentary turning off of the engine.

In the big picture of the things that are going on in the world the new fashion of indicating paragraphs is a small thing, but sometimes it is the small thing that is strangely the most irritating.

We're Not People. We're Actors!

Amateur theatricals have never been a feature of life here at Bloody Nib Manor. Having read Mansfield Park we early realized the danger of such activities and are pleased let others such as politicians, television news readers and members of the Screen Actors' Guild exhibit their talents as tyro thespians.

And times, being what they are, it is an infrequent occurrence when a traveling band of players set up their canvas and wood stage on the village green and offer a choice of commedia d'elle arte featuring unrequited love and gamboling zanni. The the result of the apparent drought of traveling troupes has been the increasing lushness of turf on the green and a drop of the number of births nine months after the troupe has packed up and left for the out and beyond. Strangely, many of these mysterious babies have shared physical characteristics with not only the mother, but the actors portraying Harlequin, Punchinello or Scaramouche. It has proven to be a matter of wonder because the mothers, usually young, rather dim and aspiring for the bright lights of the city have all maintained that they never engaged in the act the is required to make a woman a mother. Something to do with eating too much curry or too many oysters or something. Or so they say.

Occasionally an itinerant mime will drop by the manor and insist that he will, for the exchange of a bit of brass, display his talents for the entertainment and edification of the household. These fellows (and they are invariably men) are usually a rather sad and down at the heels lot; frayed trouser cuffs, stained striped jerseys and sad countenaces even without the white make up. The results of their visits are usually palm prints on the inside of the panes of the greenhouse left after said mime (usually self named Pip or Tip or Kip) performed the standard "Man Trapped In a Glass Box" routine. Needless to say, the quality of mimes here is lacking. The art, as it is, has sadly declined from the halcyon days of the young Marceau and Tati.

Needless to say, most of the forms of popular entertainment have not been missed here. What has been missed, though, is the humble Punch and Judy Show. The rough outline of the Punch and Judy play is probably known to all over the age of thirty-five; Punch argues with Judy, Punch throws his baby out a window, Punch kills Judy, Punch kills the Bailiff, Punch goes to Hell, Punch tricks the Devil into hanging himself, Punch triumphs. In other words, the Punch and Judy play is a combination of The Honeymooners, Noir novels, medieval mystery plays and anything else one wants to throw into the mix. The Punch and Judy play has it all. There is material to makes children laugh, adults gasp and oldsters nod knowingly.

In fact, the Punch and Judy play is only incidentally for children. It is an old form and was originally written for adults. A few hand puppets speaking through the voice of the puppeteer using a razzer could say things that a grease painted cock's comb couldn't. Punch and Judy are, in a sense, more real to life, in an exaggerated manner, than any of Arthur Miller's scribblings simply because in most cases of stress people react instead of ruminate.

If your faithful correspondent had the money and/or talent he would make a documentary film about the old Punch and Judy men. The old P&J men (and they are invariably men) each works his own viewpoints into the play within the outline. There are men who say that it's just a silly play that makes them money during the summer at Blackpool. There is one P&J man who insists that the play is a Christian play. They have all worked within the same outline of the play. The most interesting thing, film-wise, would be to film each man's presentation of Punch and Judy without comment and then interview the puppeteer. The worse thing would be to interview a college professor for his analysis of the play or interview a young P&J man or woman who has been infected with the nonsense of deconstructionalism. But such a film would probably only be shown at that silly Sundance Film Festival and on the Public Broadcasting Stations at about three o'clock in the morning after the half hour program about cursive handwriting.

George Cruickshank, the Victorian illustrator and cartoonist, published a script of Punch and Judy in the 19th century that is quite good. But it is not the only script. The play has wide latitude within the outline, and that is its genius. Each P&J man makes his own play and to restrict it to a particular form by having a Spielberg or Lucas or Scott version is almost heresy. Punch and Judy are the low tech answer to the regimentalization of the film industry. Imagine the fact that one or two men, a dog, a flimsy stand and a few puppets can hold people's attention for fifteen or twenty minutes as well or better than a multi-million dollar episode of a television series. A cloth and papier mache' puppet being paid as much attention as a million dollar actress or actor? Unthinkable! Not to mention the fact that an actor is really not much more than a flesh and blood puppet, and a poor one at that, for the writer. The P&J man is much more the artist because he alone, working within the restrictions of the form, makes the play. He reward? Lugging about a canvas and wood frame, a dog and a tubful of puppets working for spare change. The flesh and blood puppets live the life of Riley.

But I suppose that a picture of the latest actress of the month makes more money for People magazine or Entertainment Tonight than does old Punch posing with his slapstick.