Happy Victory in Iraq Day. In case you missed it.
Ten Politically Incorrect Propositions. It’s difficult to choose just one for an excerpt because Victor Davis Hanson puts a lot of meat on the table with this article. Number 6, however, is particularly interesting:
Something has happened to the generic American male accent. Maybe it is urbanization; perhaps it is now an affectation to sound precise and caring with a patina of intellectual authority; perhaps it is the fashion culture of the metrosexual; maybe it is the influence of the gay community in arts and popular culture. Maybe the ubiquitous new intonation comes from the scarcity of salty old jobs in construction, farming, or fishing. But increasingly to meet a young American male about 25 is to hear a particular nasal stress, a much higher tone than one heard 40 years ago, and, to be frank, to listen to a precious voice often nearly indistinguishable from the female. How indeed could one make Westerns these days, when there simply is not anyone left who sounds like John Wayne, Richard Boone, Robert Duvall, or Gary Cooper much less a Struther Martin, Jack Palance, L.Q. Jones, or Ben Johnson? I watched the movie Twelve O’clock High the other day, and Gregory Peck and Dean Jagger sounded liked they were from another planet. I confess over the last year, I have been interviewed a half-dozen times on the phone, and had no idea at first whether a male or female was asking the questions. All this sounds absurd, but I think upon reflection readers my age (55) will attest they have had the same experience. In the old days, I remember only that I first heard a variant of this accent with the old Paul Lynde character actor in one of the Flubber movies; now young men sound closer to his camp than to a Jack Palance or Alan Ladd.
Candy Asses. That’s Ann Althouse’s description of the anti Sarah Palin crowd hyperventilating over a dead turkey, and I can’t think of a better one. I guess the 52 percent will be eating bean sprouts for Thanksgiving.
Lesson for Candy Asses: “When tillage begins, other arts follow. The farmers, therefore, are the founders of human civilization.” – Daniel Webster
November 23rd, 2008
Posted by
Fitzroy |
Language, Politics, Ranching |
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Last year, a rather young bull, Junior, spent some quality time with my cows with predictable results. Junior then resumed his duties with his rightful owner. Our pasture is graced this year with Oscar, who dwarfs Junior and the 1300-lb. cows. Oscar seems like a very agreeable bull. He stepped off the trailer, ignoring me holding the gate, and ambled over to the cows.
Cows get acquainted pretty much the same way dogs do. (Imagine not having to buy dinner or engage in witty repartee.) Oscar paced the circumference of the pasture, taking inventory, and then bellowed his presence to anything for miles around that might be foolish enough to challenge his dominion.
So far, the goats and dogs come and go through that pasture undeterred by Oscar, and I venture in as necessary. Oscar is not terribly interested in any of us, although I remain wary enough not to walk out to the middle of the pasture and call him out.
Naturally an article on bullfighting caught my attention.
Bullfighting is an exquisite art – a three-act drama of form, grace, skill and brutality. One particular fight, between the matador known as El Cid and Borgoñés, a 4-year old bull, is described in detail by Alexander Fiske-Harrison in Prospect Magazine.
For a brief moment, following the increasing display of risk and skill in the veronicas, we are given the sight of the man, stationary, in the midst of a circling fury, wearing this great beast like a belt, the crowd cheering, until Borgoñés, driven by his own momentum out of the charge, is drawn to a halt by attempting to turn in a distance shorter than his own body length.
Fiske-Harrison contrasts the current crusade against bullfighting as concerned entirely with the welfare of the bull. In contrast, Pope Pius V’s edict of 1567 called for a ban on bullfighting for the benefit of the souls of those involved.
So what persuaded me to go to my first bullfight, also at Seville, some ten years ago when I was 21? Well, a love of art, an admiration for courage and a recognition of mortality and the grim realities of our dealings with animals. (I should add that I have seen bullfights which have horrified me, and ones which have left me asking, in Byron’s words, whether it is just that my “heart delights/In vengeance, gloating on another’s pain.”)
It’s a worthwhile read.
Just to stand in Oscar’s presence will give you an enormous respect for the animal and for the courage of the bullfighter. Fortunately, Oscar has an easier time than Borgoñés, and I have a far easier time than El Cid.
Photo by siyublog (Creative Commons)
August 30th, 2008
Posted by
Fitzroy |
Ranching |
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I have four dogs, and I suspect one of them is a Democrat. Two Anatolian Shepherds guard the livestock – the law and order contingent – and a Rat Terrier, if he learns not to be so reckless around cars, will grow up to control vermin and warn of snakes in the grass.
The Border Collie is much smarter than the other dogs, but useless. Her instincts tell her to herd, but she doesn’t know how. She feels compelled to make an impact on the ranching operations even though she hasn’t the faintest idea what she’s doing. Her actions are well intentioned, but generally counter-productive.
Full disclosure: the dog pictured is not my dog. My dogs value their privacy, except for the Border Collie whose modelling rates are too high. But this is a dog that would look good on my front porch. It has the right combination of determination and bewilderment.
Which left me wondering . . . where is Obama’s dog? Politicians are supposed to have attractive wives and well-scrubbed kids, which Obama surely has, but a dog is obligatory. No president since Woodrow Wilson has been dogless.
Past presidents had pets that frequently seem fitting in a curious way: Howard Taft had a cow; Millard Fillmore and Franklin Pierce had no pets; and Andrew Johnson had mice!
McCain has dogs, but poor Obama has none. He promised his kids they could have a dog after the election. But Obama’s current lack of a dog could be used by McCain as further evidence of being unprepared. A dog in the future? More campaign promises.
As David Brooks said in today’s editorial, “Barack Obama loves the future because that’s where all his accomplishments are.”
Obama would do well to get a dog now since he’s trailing in the polls among pet owners.
Update: “According to the Huffington Post, ‘the American Kennel Club® (AKC) announced today that the public has elected a Poodle as their breed of choice for the Obama family.’” As I said, fitting in a curious way.
Photo by monkeyc.net Creative Commons
August 29th, 2008
Posted by
Fitzroy |
Politics, Ranching |
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Well we had a pretty good day – my brother and I – got the outside frame of the floor done and put 4 out of 20 joists in place. The rest of the joists should be easy, might do a couple a day in the evening. When we put on the plywood subfloor (six sheets of plywood) the floor will be done, then we start on the walls, then roof. I’m not sure I want to go with the barn style per the plans I bought, as it seems limiting in terms of windows and skylight, but I don’t have to decide just yet. I think the hardest part was the foundation and floor. It should get a bit easier from now on, although the roof will be a challenge. Now, unfortunately, it’s back to work at the paying job, gearing up for trial.
My brother and I are like Gary Cooper in that movie about the architect – Ayn Rand’s fantasy The Fountainhead. We bow to no man, and follow the dream . . . of the perfect shed . . . as art … death before conformity! To Hell with the Building Code! The act of creation must be preserved, on film or in lumber!
So The Fountainhead was modeled after Frank Lloyd Wright? Yeah, as in Frank Lloyd Wrong! Nice ideas on paper, but horribly non-ergonomic buildings, chairs that hurt to sit in, doors where you have to step down and duck through simultaneously. Please, spare me FLW/R! Art belongs on a wall. A wall with a doorway fit for midgets is not art – sorry! Nor is a chair that is a hemorrhoid waiting to happen! Nor is a fork that won’t pick up a piece of rib-eye or a piece of lettuce. Patricia Neal can have the beamish S.O.B.!
Now, give me a nice piece of landscape architecture, and that’s a different story. A fountain, a waterfall, a barbecue pit. . . .
Here in the South, we’re concerned with space and ventilation, leg-room, gut-room, head-room, mind-room, mud-rooms, and cockroaches. We’re pragmatists who believe that form follows function, not ego, mushrooms, popularity, acid, adoration, publicity, sun-stroke, weirdness, funkiness, dementia, hero worship, or other flirt-ilizer, gim-crackery, crack, or general nonsense. We prefer horse-sense, barn style, barnyard, right angles, Anglican righteousness, righteous indignation, indignant outrage, and basic outrageous-ness, not to mention Elliot Ness, Lake Ness, lake effect, effective opposition, oppositional defiance, defiant self-righteousness, and generally being right (which brings us back to right-angles – which, frankly, Frank wrongly thinks are evil).
The ground in south Louisiana is nearly liquid, so it has the virtue of being flat in a way that Kansans can only dream about. Consequently, we naturally build our sheds at right angles to the ground and sky. The street lights on Bourbon Street are our plumb line, and when their angle to the ground appears too acute, or oblique, we know it’s time to go home and sleep it off. Somebody call Frank a cab.
July 24th, 2008
Posted by
The Strafer |
Film, Ranching |
one comment
If you can’t find it at Wal-Mart, you probably don’t need it. That’s what the locals here said when I moved from the city looking for greener pastures – or actually for pastures of any color (things don’t stay green here for long). Those trips back to the city that we made frequently at first are becoming more rare. Wal-Mart is the place to go for groceries, hoses, underwear, digital cameras and, yes, ammo.
Wal-Mart is also becoming a major player in the music business. The New York Times carried an article about the deals Wal-Mart is making directly with musicians.
The deals highlight the changing dynamics of the music industry as once-powerful labels decline because of the migration to digital downloads. To fill the gap, musicians are scrambling to connect with fans, and Wal-Mart is using these exclusive deals to assume a new role: hit maker.
Groups like the Eagles and Journey are selling CDs at $11.98 and pocketing about half of that amount. The consumer pays less and the musicians make more. Hmm. Maybe the Maryland legislature or the anti-Wal-Mart blogs could find some unfairness in that.
To those who cannot pronounce Wal-Mart without a sneer, this is the kind of thing that makes Wal-Mart a success. Traditional record retailers, a dying breed, are trying to play catch-up.
Yes, Wal-Mart opened its superstore on the edge of town, and there is some empty retail space on the main street, but many of those businesses were defunct before Wal-Mart arrived. And the retailers on Main Street as a rule never offered pay and benefits that could match Wal-Mart.
This is not to say that I don’t have occasional complaints about Wal-Mart, but the vitriol that Wal-Mart generates is irrational. Some people combat terrorism, or poverty, or ignorance, or injustice – and some have such frivolous priorities that devote their lives to combating a retail chain.
June 21st, 2008
Posted by
Fitzroy |
Music, Ranching |
no comments
Today I found a calf in my yard. It’s completely black, like its mother, and I’m not sure yet what gender it is. Its mother, Chloe, stood rather menacingly over it, not quite ready to permit a close inspection. It’s not her first calf, but it is mine.
Experiences like this make you think ranching is easy. A friend of ours delivered a bull last year. I came home from the office and the bull was in the pasture. A couple of months later, our friend retrieved his bull. I woke up this morning to find a calf. What could be easier?
I understand that the law of averages dictates that, sooner or later, I will be out in the pasture at 3 a.m. incompetently intervening in the birthing process of a 1300 lb. beast. Like Billy Crystal pulling a calf in “City Slickers,” that may be the cathartic event that turns me from a dilettante into a real rancher.
The other cow, Daphne (mugging for the camera below), is due any day now, and I’m hoping to remain a dilettante for at least another year.
June 20th, 2008
Posted by
Fitzroy |
Ranching |
one comment
