I place economy among the first and most important republican virtues, and public debt as the greatest of the dangers to be feared. To preserve our independence, we must not let our rulers load us with perpetual debt.
-Thomas Jefferson

Why is it that President Bush keeps referring to himself as the Commander in Chief of the US? He’s the Commander in Chief of the armed forces, not the whole country. The rest of us have a president with limited constitutional powers; we don’t get commanded to do squat.

Better a dancing chef than a commanding chief.

War would end if the dead could return.

— Stanley Baldwin, statesman
(1867-1947)

By the way, it turns out my friend Elaine was right, when she wondered if the piercing whistle slashing my neighborhood could be from a car. Turns out it’s a burgundy Honda, and the kid who drives it is apparently infatuated with the alarm.

I was walking Happy through the park the other day, when I remembered that I’d sent a photo to Flickr the night before, and because of site maintenance I wasn’t able to check it. You know, make sure it was uploaded and organized properly. Turns out it did not post to Flickr, but here it is.

And it occurred to me it’s pretty stupid to be walking through the park on a beautiful day, thinking about something like this. After all, the Internet isn’t even a real place.

What a thought. The Internet, not a real place. And the next thought was, I shouldn’t tell the people on the internet. They’ll be offended.

Wow. The mind does strange things when we wander too far from the two dimensional non reality of the computer. You’re not offended, are you, my little Max Headrooms? No, I’m sure you’re not. And you won’t be hurt if I tell you I’ve been too long at the zoo. So having bounced into this phenomenological pothole, I’m shutting down, and off to read a (real) book and get some sleep. Maybe a banana. See you tomorrow, if I can find my way back down the rabbit hole.

Oh, and here’s a poem.


The Snow Man
by Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

I wouldn’t want to leave the impression that I’m a total noise grouch. This place is normally quiet and most people are considerate and cool. And there are lots of sounds that I love, to say nothing of music per se. One of my favorite sounds is the chime of this clock, which lives in my living room.


Kind of a crappy picture, but I didn’t want to use a flash. Anyway, it belonged to my grandfather, and it was made in 1870 and it sounds beautiful. It sat on the mantle of their living room for years before I was even born, and now they’re gone and it’s here with me. I like to hear it tick but especially its very simple, homey chime; so much so, that I often mute the TV, close my eyes and listen.

It reminds me. Lets me believe in a time and place where I was safe, where there was this clock keeping the hours until dawn, ticking with the sound of Grandma’s steps on the kitchen floor and Papa’s snoring, and the only worry I had – if you can call it that – was the abject anticipation of a sleigh impacting on the roof. So can you blame me for cherishing not silence but peace?

About the aggravating whistle being emitted into my poor noise-polluted environs, Elaine asks “could it be a gadget? electronic?”

Sure, I thought about that too. But as time goes by and it continues, it sounds more and more human. I think it’s a poor little moron who comes out on the balcony across the alley and one row down. I asked a neighbor, who isn’t an idiot, and he concurs with my theory.

Despite my windows being closed against the evening chill, I heard it about twenty minutes ago — a quadruple tweet — and hurried out onto my balcony. I could see him over there, a bleak figure in hooded motley. Did I imagine it, or is he humpbacked? Regardless, this cretin can whistle. Loud.

I’m surprised coyotes aren’t gathering down out of the foothills, even more pissed off than me.

I stood and stared at him through the twilight, until he disappeared down the stairs.

Now I’m daydreaming about beating him into eternity with a shovel, and burying his deformed carcass in the field of baby’s breath next door. A nod to the heirs of Darwinism … a consummation devoutly to be wished.

It started last night about six o’clock, during the football game. One long tweet or a double tweet-tweet, like somebody calling a dog. But sadly there are no dogs here, and no visible sign of the person who is standing outside, maybe under a tree or in one of the garages, whistling like an idiot. Well, not so much like an idiot as just a whistling idiot, right?

He – could be a woman, but I doubt it – does it about every 15 or 20 minutes. It went on for over 4 hours last night. It started up again this morning, around nine. That’s when I started yelling knock it off and stop that whistling. I think it’s stopped, but how can you be sure? It’s the kind of thing that just gets right on your last reserve nerve, and keeps you on edge waiting to hear it again.

We have a noise pollution problem here anyway. Loud car stereos, cars that can’t possibly have legal mufflers. We have a grocery truck that pulls into the condos and parks and plays La Cucaracha with its horn, which is illegal. I’m gonna get that guy; me and a few of the other owners. There are lots of kids, but that’s life in the big city. I would never ask children to play quietly. But I wonder if I’m starting to turn into a grumpy old (middle-aged) dick for wanting a little peace and quiet.

No. The world is getting more crowded all the time, and if we don’t learn to treat each other with courtesy and consideration, we’ll eat each other like crazed rats in a cage. There are 280 “families” here, and though we have a very nice setting, anything disruptive we do effects somebody else’s quality of life and property values. So Mr. Whistler better not start that stuff up again, ‘cuz I’ll find him. Have us a little roshambo.

I’m a little surprised that no one has left a comment on my last post yet, because that seems like the kind of thing people might have opinions about. Hmm.

It’s really cold here tonight. I don’t want to turn on my electric heating, ‘cuz it’s really expensive. But I might have to. It’s breezy and clear and colder than a welldigger’s monkey’s nuts. Or something. And I can’t find my sweatshirts – not even the old one with the cartoon characters – so they must be put away, high up in the closet. I’ll get ‘em tomorrow, when I don’t need them anymore. Mean time, I’m sitting here at the computer, wearing sweat pants, an old polo shirt, and a bath robe.

What are you wearing? Wait, don’t answer that.

That was a disappointing ending tonight, between Fresno State and Reno. The Valley boys put up a good fight, but it wasn’t meant to be. And just like last week, seems like turnovers and penalties played a big part in it. Didn’t see my (2nd) cousin in the game; hence, I suppose, the outcome. He has bruised ribs from getting hit in the USC game last week, but at Thanksgiving he was pretty confident of getting in the game tonight. … Maybe I just missed him. … It’s gonna be a long bus ride back to Fresno, I’m sure.

Hang in there kids, even a bad night of losing a game in college beats the hell out of life in the real world. Somebody stop me before I start quoting A.E. Housman.

Last year, I didn’t put up my Christmas lights until just days before the holiday. It made me a little sad, you know? Christmas came and went, and it felt like I never hardly saw it coming until it was gone. So it rang a little hollow.

Now it bears noting that I’m Russian Orthodox. My church celebrates liturgical events according to the Old Calendar, the Julian calendar. Our December 25 is January 6 on the modern calendar. The point being that I get to leave my lights up longer than you might, and not feel like a slob. And I get to have Christmas with family and again in Church, which is cool. But I digress.

This year I decided to start working on my Christmas spirit a little sooner, and put up my lights the night after Thanksgiving. I love Christmas, always have. This year will be a little bittersweet, without my grandparents and my best fuzzy friend. but I have my family and memories, and the story. Shepards abiding in the fields, keeping watch o’er their flocks, the angels, the manager, the newborn king.

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men. [Luke 2]

So tonight I stopped at Rite Aid on the way home and bought a set of Christmas lights, and strung them on the balcony. I’m going to try to get in the Christmas spirit earlier this year; perhaps earlier than I ever have. And I’m not going to let any forces close to me, if it can be avoided, wash the Christianity out of Christmas. It is not a secular holiday, it’s not for each his own personal relativism. It’s Christmas: the birth into the world of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, and atheists, agnostics and the sect of the sugar plum teddybear deity should stop trying to show us Christians how we ought to observe it.

I’m not just talking about Santa Claus and commercialism. The mad dash for the X-Box. I’m talking about a trend to purge the holiday of its religious significance, to wrench it from the hands and hearts of Christians, because Jesus isn’t what some people want. They want reindeer and mistletoe, and just as soon we’d keep our Lord to ourselves.

My goodness, can you imagine the uproar of indignation and moral outrage if people started trying to tell Jews how to observe Yom Kippur or Rosh Hashanah? Let alone if we tried to co-opt Ramadan to be a cool way for everybody to lose weight. Blood in the streets … well, things might even get worse. Those things are sacred to people, and people who don’t observe keep their mitts off, as it should be. And so it should be with Christmas. Join us, celebrate, have a Merry Christmas. But if you don’t believe in Jesus, don’t act like He makes you uncomfortable and I shouldn’t mention Him. Christmas is all about Christ.

Thank you for your support. Here’s a funky little shot of my lights.

Or, if you’ve had a little too much eggnog:

It’s uncanny. This is exactly what happens when I go for a walk in my neighborhood.

I was just watching the Arts channel on cable. Woody Herman and His Swingin’ Herd, 1964.  There was this trombone player who was amazing, like somebody breathing in and out a kind of cool pain. Man, I wish I’d kept playing the trombone after high school, maybe in college, and gotten a good tutor.  If I could play like that guy, who’s at least in his 80s now, if he’s not dead, but he remembers he used to play like nobody’s damn business.  Sweet.