When people in your town or state do something really dumb, the best thing to do is just roll with it. In that spirit, I present to you: the Crichton leprechaun.
Perhaps you never heard of the Crichton leprechaun. Crichton is a neighborhood in Mobile. A few years ago, around St. Patrick’s Day, someone in Crichton claimed to have seen a leprechaun in a tree. Things escalated from there:
Although this happened in 2006, for some reason Bill O’Reilly has resurrected it, suggesting that reporting the story was racist. Today’s paper discusses that controversy. Well, all I can say about that is that there are a lot of dumb white people here, too, and the rest of the country, not to mention most of us here, would have laughed just as hard if this discovery had been made by them.
In either case, they’re my people.
It occurs to me that Crichton sounds like a Gaelic word. Hmm...
I finished reading it several days ago and am now, as time permits, skimming over it again, re-reading passages I’d marked, and thinking about it. I’m going to try to write something about it this weekend, so I invite anyone else who’s ready to discuss it to do so then.
Two broad observations: (1) it really is a mistake to mine the encyclical for quotes that can be put to specifically partisan purposes; it’s much larger than that. (2) Those who have complained that it’s poorly written and/or that it doesn’t all seem to be the work of the same person have a point. This doesn’t justify, for instance, George Weigel’s implication that some of it is dispensable because it doesn’t represent the mind of the pope. But it is a bit of a jumble, passages of golden theology juxtaposed with sometimes slightly odd excursions into commentary on specific matters, like tourism.
I also stopped reading commentaries from other people after the first day or so, but there are a few that I want to look at now. Speaking of the overall character and effect of the document, I can agree entirely with this comment by Peter Steinfels. I must say it feels a little strange to find myself agreeing with the New York Times.
I’ve sometimes heard people of my generation joke about this phrase, as if everyone was familiar with it, and with drills held in schools where the children were taught to hide under their desks to protect themselves in a nuclear attack. I never knew the origin of the jokes, as these lessons apparently never reached my obscure little community in Alabama, and I can’t remember ever hearing anything like it. It was only this morning that my daughter showed me this on YouTube—the original 1951 government film which I gather is the source of the phrase. She knew about it from South Park and was surprised to find that it wasn’t just their joke.
The film seems comical enough now, but I’ve always thought nuclear fear had a big influence on those of us born soon after WWII. Anywhere, anytime...
If you’re wondering, as I did, just how effective any of this might have been, there is (of course) a Wikipedia article.
I suppose it’s inevitable that as one gets older the tendency to think that the world is declining gets stronger. I do try to keep that tendency in check, but sometimes the evidence is really pretty persuasive: for instance in the case of television journalism.
I was never a great admirer of Walter Cronkite. Watching the evening news was never a regular habit for me, and as my own opinions became more fully formed, and often in opposition to the conventional liberalism of most journalism, I didn’t particularly trust what Cronkite and others were telling me. And I found his magisterial “That’s the way it is” irritating—I always wanted to reply, “No, that’s the way it looks to you.” Yet I never thought that he was consciously bending the truth, only that he had a distinct point of view which limited him in ways of which he might not have been entirely aware. I can’t say as much for most television journalists now; they seem both more aware of their biases and less interested in transcending them. Of the partisan quasi-journalists like Hannity and Olbermann (to be fair to both ideological sides), I would rather not even speak.
Whatever Cronkite’s limitations, he seems a giant compared to his successors. It’s partly because he seemed to have more integrity and skill as a journalist. But it’s also because he seemed to be a man of a type that the nation just doesn’t produce anymore. He had—at least in his screen presence—a dignity, intelligence, and maturity which no one much seems to have anymore; no one in the public eye, anyway.
He was an old-school liberal who represents much of what was good about a disappearing sort of genteel WASP establishment liberalism (I’m not sure about the AS part, but he was an Episcopalian), a liberalism which had not yet, or not entirely, ossified into an ideology. He was a political liberal, certainly, and is sometimes denounced by conservatives for having said that a journalist is liberal by definition. But if you look at the entire passage, he doesn’t mean what he’s accused of meaning :
“I think being a liberal, in the true sense, is being nondoctrinaire, nondogmatic, non-committed to a cause—but examining each case on its merits. Being left of center is another thing; it’s a political position. I think most newspapermen by definition have to be liberal; if they’re not liberal, by my definition of it, then they can hardly be good newspapermen. If they’re preordained dogmatists for a cause, then they can’t be very good journalists; that is, if they carry it into their journalism.”
This is a more fundamental sort of liberalism, a matter of character and of intellectual will rather than of political viewpoint. We could use more of it in politics and journalism. Nowadays a self-described liberal is every bit as likely as a conservative to be not only a dogmatist but a bigot, by which I mean one whose intellect is subservient to anger and hatred. (Bigotry and stupidity don’t necessarily go together; plenty of our intellectuals and semi-intellectuals are bigoted.)
Our political discourse will never again be dominated by a few voices in the way that it was in Cronkite’s time, and overall I think that’s a good thing, because those few voices left out too much of the truth, left too many questions unasked. But it seems that the more voices there are, the more shrill, hostile, and unreflective—in a word, the more uncivilized—they have become.
Good night, Mr. Cronkite. You were never anything less than civilized.
I’ve really given it a fair shot. Over the past couple of months my wife and I have seen four of the most highly regarded Leone westerns: A Fistful of Dollars, For a Few Dollars More, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, and Once Upon a Time in the West. And it’s not because I was prejudiced against them; in fact the contrary was true. I wanted and expected to like them. But I found them tiresome. I actually had to force myself to finish The Good; after falling asleep during my first attempt, I let the disk sit around for several days and seriously considered sending it back to Netflix without finishing it.
I think I get what Leone was trying to do: the ritualizing, the mythologizing, the darkening of the Western. But for me it just didn’t work, for the most part; it seemed too self-conscious. There were some visual things I really liked, mainly because I love the western scenery and atmosphere. But the stories and characters simply weren’t compelling enough for me to make the slow pace work. The long stylized confrontations just seemed overblown and unconvincing. I didn’t care for a lot of the acting: Clint Eastwood’s tight-lipped squint-eyed silence does not wear well at all; it quickly begins to seem like schtick. The grim and greasy villains too often seemed like caricatures, especially the Mexican bad guys, with their stereotypical Mexican bad guy arh har har my friend laughter. By the end of The Good I was wincing every time Tuco opened his mouth.
I didn’t even like Morricone’s famous scores as much as I expected to, though they all had some great moments.
I came closest to liking Once Upon a Time. Of the four, I thought it had the most interesting plot and characters. I actually cared about what was going to happen, and didn’t find myself thinking how much longer...? (I just realized: it wasn’t planned, but we actually ate spaghetti while watching the first half of it. Maybe that helped.)
According to Wikipedia, Once Upon a Time is full of references to classic Westerns like High Noon and The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. I don’t care at all about that sort of thing, but I’ve never seen most of those, and I think I will. I’ll probably like them better.
Antiaphrodite AKA Thornweaver has moved her blog to Wordpress. It’s still called Fountains of Angelwine, or rather fountains of angelwine, and I’ve changed the sidebar link accordingly. This one is considerably more readable, I think. Also, you don’t have to register in order to comment.
It’s hard to believe that The Dawn Patrol is going away. I’m not sure how long I’ve been a regular reader but it’s measured in years; perhaps five. Her archives go back to 2002 and I don’t think there was more than a year or two there when I first ran across it. I can’t remember how I did, either, but I quickly became engrossed in Dawn’s very moving journey from serious depression into Protestant Christianity and then into the Church. Somewhere I think there is a link to the series of posts describing that journey; I don’t have time to look for it now but will do so later.
And Toby Danna of Astonished, Yet at Home is going on leave from blogging at least for a while. There is a remarkable post on his blog now, about the third one down, which I want to discuss when I have a bit more time. Go here if you want to read it, and thanks to Janet for pointing it out to me, as I had been very busy for several weeks and gotten way behind on reading other people’s blogs.
Both these people will be missed. Both are leaving the blogosphere in part because it has become too big a distraction and a disruption to their spiritual lives. I understand. I don’t plan to quit anytime soon, but I can see how it might come to that. For instance, I’m going to have to work late this evening because I’ve overspent my lunch hour browsing the web, writing emails, and writing this post and another which I didn’t finish.
Three things I’ve run across in the past few days:
xkcd hits the mark again. See if you recognize yourself in this. I did.
Some years ago I read a short story by Ursula LeGuin (not by any means a favorite writer of mine) which really slammed this point home. I don’t remember the name of it, but it involves a writer—a Hollywood screenwriter, maybe—who takes himself and his work very very seriously, and who has rented a cabin on the Oregon coast to work on a book or screenplay or something. At first the point of view is his, and it’s all about his superior insight, sensitivity, and importance. He briefly notes the existence of a lowly person, a cleaning woman I think, and reflects on the fact that her inner life must be pretty empty and insignificant compared to his. And then—if I have the sequence correct—the story shifts to her point of view. Sorry I can’t remember the name; it’s worth reading. I can say it’s the only unforgettable thing I’ve ever read by LeGuin.
Surfin’ Su-o-mi (cf. the Beach Boys “Surfin’ USA”). “Suomi” is what the Finns call Finland. If you’re in a hot climate, like I am, you may actually find this slightly appealing. Slightly.