Somebody asked me “Why don’t you write more on LOTR?” I dunno.
Look, I love Lord of the Rings; my beloved and much-dog-earred copy was given to me in 1975, fer goodness sake, and it’s falling apart from being read a gazillion times. In the late 70s I was fairly proficient in written Dwarvish (I never could figure out Elvish, although I was quite a hounddog in college…). “Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age” is one of the finest chapters ever to spring from the mind of any man. I watch “The Ride of the Rohirrim” once a month with the surround sound friggin’ cranked and I blubber like a baby through it. But it’s just not something I write a lot about, and there are so many other folks who do it so much better.
Want to meet for a beer (or six) sometime? We’ll discuss all of his related writings for hours; hell, even a few of his unrelated writings. But I don’t see me writing about it any time soon. Unless I do.
I will, however, link to Dwarf and Elf Jokes.
And gnomes are an entirely different matter.
The example sentence was simply swill…
oracular \or-RAK-yuh-ler\ adjective
*1 : resembling an oracle (as in solemnity of delivery)
2 : of, relating to, or being an oracle
Example sentence:
*A knowledgeable wine drinker herself, Roberta refuses to assign an oracular status to professional wine critics; she drinks what she likes, not what has been well-reviewed.
On Bullshit
There! I said it.
“One of the most salient features of our culture is that there is so much bullshit,” Harry G. Frankfurt writes, in what must surely be the most eyebrow-raising opener in modern philosophical prose. “Everyone knows this. Each of us contributes his share. But we tend to take the situation for granted.”
I found this little gem of a review by Roger Kimball while deleting unread/unopened Opinion Journals. I was immediately intrigued by his description of the Grey Lady’s sudden onset of blushing priggishness…
“Manners,” Edmund Burke wrote, “are of more importance than law. . . . The law touches us but here and there and now and then. Manners are what vex or soothe, corrupt or purify, exalt or debase, barbarize or refine us, by a constant, steady, uniform and insensible operation like that of the air we breathe in.”
Manners determine not so much what is right and wrong as what is seemly and unseemly: what is and is not decorous or appropriate. Consider the latest bestseller from Princeton University Press by a philosopher named Harry Frankfurt. It’s called “On Bull—-“–well, many American newspapers, including this one, forbear to print the word, but you know what it is. Even the New York Times, whose lifestyle sections celebrate all manner of “transgressive” habits in detail, can’t bring itself to spell out the book’s title on its bestseller list.
…and completely hooked by the ‘Mr. Podsnap’ thing. How cool is that? (Never having been one to wade through Dickens, I still have a fine appreciation of the gent’s bent for characters.) I have penned this post in honor of Mr. Podsnap. Please consider my share contributed in full, of bull.
Yes this…
sylph \SILF\ noun
1 : an elemental being in the theory of Paracelsus that inhabits air
2 : a slender graceful woman or girl
…would be me.
Too precious to waste.
vermicular \ver-MIK-yuh-ler\ adjective
1 *a : resembling a worm in form or motion b : marked with irregular fine lines or with wavy impressed lines
2 : of, relating to, or caused by worms
Appropriate with the Carnival of the Recipes up and Bingley’s
Pamelas front and center…ahem, as always. (Thanks Amanda!)
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As the spouse of an educator (and I use that particular bromide solely because it will make her cringe), and particularly one who’s specialty is English Littrachure, I have a heightened awareness of edjumacational issues, and my spider-senses are trained to tingle when I hear people about me discussing such topics. So imagine then how my soul leapt for joy this morning at 6am while I was having breakfast at a Waffle House in Columbia, SC.
Now, mind you, eating at the Waffle House is, in and of itself, normally a cause for celebration (oh, and I had 2 eggs over easy, grits, sausage, buttered (slathered really) toast and lots of coffee. Heaven. Oh yes, heaven indeed.) as the cultural backwater in which I find myself domiciled doesn’t have any. But the extra joy this morning was provided by the local folk, decent hard-working fellows who seemed to be in their late 40s or so, and who didn’t appear to be the college type. Yet to my wandering ear was brought such rapture by their words extolling the virtue of Shakespeare! Oh frabjous day! In a Waffle House!
One fellow was quite adamant in his insistance that Shakespeare was the BEST, and he would brook no other opinion. “In my experience” he declared “all the others ain’t worth a damn next to Shakespeare.” And he kindly provided a website for his dining companions so that they too could verify his claims…
yawp \YAWP\ verb
1 : to make a raucous noise : squawk
*2 : clamor, complain
Example sentence:
Bob was unpopular with the office supervisors because he was always yawping loudly about his working conditions.
*Indicates the sense illustrated in the example sentence.
In our house, it simply means ‘yes‘, as in:
Did you feed the dog yet? Yawp
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Saturday’s was too good not to post:
gorgonize \GOR-guh-nyze\ verb:
to have a paralyzing or mesmerizing effect on : stupefy, petrify
The bus driver could gorgonize any unruly child with a single glance.
That isn’t the only word that starts with ‘gor‘ and winds up being stupefying…
Daughter has the week off from school, so I’m taking her to the Frick on Tuesday.
And maybe tea at the Plaza, for the last time.
And then we’ll go look at the good stuff at the Met!
(my sweet bride has to work, and she’s very jealous about this)
As far as the Hunter Thompson/Hemingway brouhaha (ala Andrea), I’ve only read this one of his books and it was a doozey. (I won’t claim to be an academic of Bingley’s ilk and am not even worthy to consider wiping the shoes of the family scholar nj sue.) In Papa’s defence, I offer…
Garden of Eden
“A sensational bestseller when it appeared in 1986, The Garden of Eden is the last uncompleted novel of Ernest Hemingway, which he worked on intermittently from 1946 until his death in 1961. Set on the Côte d’Azur in the 1920s, it is the story of a young American writer, David Bourne, his glamorous wife, Catherine, and the dangerous, erotic game they play when they fall in love with the same woman*. “A lean, sensuous narrative…taut, chic, and strangely contemporary…”(*emphasis mine, for Ken’s sake.)
I will admit to actually rereading…ahem..once…or twice. But purely for the descriptions of life on the Mediterranean. Not for any of the other…stuff.
Yow…gotta go take a cold shower..
Littrachure | Mr. Bingley | 
April 18, 2005 9:14 pm | 
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