Old Glory On An Asherah Pole

So, the Israelites had this annoying tendency to idolize the wrong things. They made that infamous calf at the base of the holiest mountain on Earth and danced around it while God spoke to Moses. They married into the indigenous Canaanite religions and bowed down to Ashtoreths and Baals before Joshua was even cold in his grave. Then they elected an unfortunate series of corrupt kings who continued to read books on Wicca and erect...well...inappropriate erections.

A good but somewhat recalcitrant judge named Gideon began the process of pointing out these sacrilegious inconsistencies amongst the Lord's people when he chopped down his father's Asherah pole (a totem-pole-esque edifice honoring the Hebrew goddess of fertility, Asherah) and demolished the adjacent altar to everyone's favorite euphemism for the Semitic rain god Hadad, Ba'al. Ever since, party-poopers like Gideon and myself (with the incredibly unpopular spiritual gift of discernment) have been doomed to deconstruct the myriad surrogate deities we alleged followers of the Lord set up in place of the real Jehovah. And here I go again...

Folks, this past Sunday morning in "church" I bore witness to an orgy of patriotic gyration the likes of which Sodom and Gomorrah never even dreamed about. Proud, shrieking eagles swooped across the altar; monstrous flags obscured the stained glass portrait of Jesus; Uncle Sam stomped in with Old Glory hoisted higher than the cross. We sang every trite, maudlin bunting song in the red, white, and blue book. We waved little plastic replica flags (that were, I giggled to note, made in China) in time to "Grand Ol' Flag," a tune I'm quite sure none of the salivating patriots realized originated in a toe-tapping Broadway show and NOT as the follow-up track to Lee Greenwood's "Proud to Be an American."

Now I don't mind celebrating the Grand Ol' Fourth any more than the next guy. But in the house of the Lord, I would like to reserve my adulation for Him, AND ONLY HIM. I will NOT condone an entire Sunday devoted to tired, over-simplified praise songs exalting our perfect, morally pure and supreme nation of almighty glory and power...but with "never a boast or brag." My gall caught in my throat.

Am I just a jumpy jeremiad? Have any of you experienced this disappointing trend? What is to be done? I cannot follow Gideon's example and simply cut down the flag to use as fuel for burning the bunting-and-balloon altar to the great god Freedominus Americammon. Maybe Jefferson was right: the separation of Church and State doesn't seem like such a bad idea after all.

Judges 6:25-32; 1 Kings 18:21-39

Gradalis Scholasticus

Holy...Grail, blogademes! Your intrepid Sir Bibs was at long last deemed worthy of a glimpse of the holy of holies this afternoon at around 4:00. After questing for many years (nine, but who's counting?), this weary knight of knowledge has finally neared his journey's end.

I passed my Ph.D. qualifying exams today. That's right, blogstudents, I'm one dissertation away from being...wait for it...a bona fide doctor! Not the kind that makes lots of money for splicing a couple of arteries together and then going off to play golf all week, but a doctor nonetheless! The official term for my current status is ABD (Almost Brain Dead), and many schools will actually consider hiring me now! No kidding! I already got a call from the local community college about setting up an interview (and before you scoff, consider that, in these turbid economic times, community colleges are paying much more than their university counterparts).

O Lord, thanks be to Thee for Thy mercy and guidance! Bless this travel-sore wanderer and lead him to the sacred grove of academe!

Gehenna or Bust

To take a break from the List of Doom, I wanted to refer all you blogophytes to an imminent movie event not to be missed. Coming out on May 29, Sam Raimi's return to "Real Horror," piquantly entitled Drag Me to Hell, will at long last restore my faith in scream cinema. Think The Evil Dead with (only slightly) better effects.

The plot: in brief, a creepy old gypsy woman (what could be more deliciously melodramatic?) is denied an extension on her mortgage payment (what could be more culturally topical?), and the unfortunate bank bureaucrat responsible spends the remainder of the film hysterically fleeing a legion of sardonic (and surprisingly articulate) demons, while her skeptical boyfriend refuses to entertain even the possibility of a diabolical curse and continuously assures her that she's overreacting and that . . . you guessed it . . . it's probably nothing!

Can you believe it? It's a tract for our troubled times, complete with the evil eye and cackling bugaboos around every corner! What could be better for a nation in dire need of catharsis? Wouldn't we all like to see one of those damned bankers suffer the conflagratory pangs of compulsory damnation? I only hope the bank our "heroine" works for goes by the name "Atlantic Investments Group" or something like that. Kick some ass, Raimi!

Countdown to Comps, DEFCON 1.75

Guess what, blogfiends. Your faithful Bibb has completed his Ph.D. coursework, and he's headed for the ominous comprehensive exams in the spring. In the meantime, he has to read around 140 books to prepare. Can you friggin' believe it?! What the crap, dudes? You'd think I was trying to get a degree in reading stuff...or something.

Anyway, I thought it might be a gas to record my progress, and since no one reads this blog and I need a visual reminder of how far I've come (and how far I've left to go), I've decided to keep tabs on my reading here on the old E&C. Haven't you always dreamed of getting an inside look into the exciting world of the doctoral graduate student? Well, here's your chance. Let me tell you, it's not all girls, glamour, and rock n' roll. Actually, it's very little of those. It's mostly dust, papercuts, and coffee mugs.

So here we go...

FINISHED
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad
Hard Times by Charles Dickens
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot
Adam Bede by George Eliot
Silas Marner by George Eliot
Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy
Vanity Fair by W. M. Thackeray
Idylls of the King by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Barchester Towers by Anthony Trollope
Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson
Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson
The Subjection of Women by John Stuart Mill
Culture and Anarchy by Matthew Arnold
A Passage to India by E. M. Forster
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce
Dubliners by James Joyce
In Memoriam, A. H. H. by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Man and Superman by George Bernard Shaw
Selected Poems by Robert Browning (Dude Kicks Some Righteous A)

IN-PROGRESS
Mrs. Warren's Profession by George Bernard Shaw
AND Portrait of a Lady by Henry James (audio file via Librivox)

NEXT-IN-LINE
Howards End by E. M. Forster

Check back for updates as I slog through the list of doom. And feel free to ask me questions about the books as I finish them. It will be good practice for the exams.

FOX Stole my Post

I thought this might brighten up the holiday blues for some of you poor Christmas protesters out there. If you find yourself losing your cool this holiday season, try getting the whole family to gather around for a good old-fashioned Yuletide Tirade. Make sure to invent several original compound modifiers, like "lard-spattered" or "poop-loving." And be honest; it helps add to the sense of fury.

You're welcome, bloggerinoes, and Happy Holidays.

Christmas? Humbug!

Not me, that's for jingle-damned sure.

Obviously, the bitterness came early this holiday season, kiddoes. As my sainted mother used to say, I am "sick-unto-death" of hearing about other people's problems, questions, concerns, plans, desires, intentions, opinions, and suggestions. Perhaps this comes of being an instructor and having to listen to hosts of questions about everything from online technical issues to where to properly place a staple on a printed document (yes, that actually came up this year).

Perhaps my acidic Scroogeyness comes of my increasing disinterest in anything occuring in the so-called "real world" these days. I mean, what is there in real life that even holds a candle to poetry, to the beautiful other-worlds of Auden, Eliot, Thomas, Keats, Arnold, Browning, Yeats, Heaney, Milton, Shakespeare, Coleridge, Tennyson, Hopkins, Poe, Robinson, Rossetti, Dickinson, Donne, Blake, Baudelaire, Byron, Frost, Whitman and Wordsworth? I'd exchange an average day of my lackluster life for any single line by any one of these poets, especially at Christmas. No, really, that is not an overstatement.

As the horror of another empty Christmas darkens the horizon, I realize how truly little I care about several specific things. The following litany of holiday "who cares" includes the items that will elicit either complete indifference from me, or possibly a swift sidekick to the face. And lucky you, I decided to list them, jazzy X-mas bullet-style! Boo-yah!

I don't care about your awesome Christmas party. Nothing is quite as irksome as having to listen to the lame exploits of your stupid holiday get-together. Grow up.


I don't care about Christmas gifts for me or for you. Don't ask me what I want for Christmas because the reply, like "For you to move to Australia," might cause you pain.


I don't care about the discounts you got on anything. The surest way to provoke me into punching you in the kidneys is the mention of any sale you encountered this year.


I don't care about your festive, seasonal decorations. In fact, if you'd like to avoid having them ripped down and burned, you might just keep them in the attic this December.


I don't care about the marvelous Christmas goodies you made. Actually, the very word "goodies" makes me want to break something brightly colored and cheery, like your face.


I don't care about the kickin' Christmas mix you downloaded on your iPod. I'll shove that little white bastard where the majestic Tree Topper's light don't shine.


I don't care about your family's holiday plans. Whoever's coming to your house this year is probably just as big a moron as you are, and you'll all have a splendidly moronic time together, I'm sure.

Take that, Holiday Season! Don't pretend you're happy around me. Don't tell me 'tis the season to be jolly. Let's see some humility and contrition. If you want to talk about how the human race was so repugnantly foul that our kind and perfect Creator had to take on human flesh and die to redeem us from our disgusting, brutish, sinful selves, then gather 'round the egg-nogg bowl and we'll chat awhile. Otherwise, stay the holly-hell out of my anti-festive face.

Merry Christmas!

Please excuse the preceeding vitriolic invective against Christmas and Christmastime. The author simply needed to vent his burgeoning frustrations and did not intend to offend, frighten, belittle, intimidate, undermine, judge, or trivialize any of your sacred holiday feelings. The author merely asks you to abide by the listed suggestions to avoid his increased displeasure and discomfort, and he wishes to inform you in no uncertain terms of his sincere hope to avoid harming you for contravening any of the enumerated prohibitions on his list. Offer expires 12-31-08. Void where prohibited.

Leftovers: Gobble, Gobble, Toil and Trobble...

Yep, Halloween is history, my little gobblets. Make way for gluttonous consumption on a national scale the likes of which you haven't seen since...well, since Halloween. That's right, wood-chuck chuckers, it's Thanksgiving Day!

So get out there and buy! Buy! Buy! Buy! First go and buy more food than most Ethiopians see in a lifetime and plop it down on the table for your fat relatives and fat friends! Then sit around and stuff your fat faces with grease and butter until you simply must get up from the table and either poop explosively or vomit in a projectile fashion! Whee! American traditions are great!

Oh sure, I know what some of you must be thinking: "But Thanksgiving is about taking time to thank God, Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Vishnu, Cthulhu, or Burt Reynolds for all the blessings he/it has given me during the past year!" Sure it is. How does consuming obscene quantities of food that could have been given to those who have nothing to eat qualify as an adequate expression of thanks?

Then after you have bought everything Kroger has on its shelves and thrown about half of that away or given it to the cat/dog/Uncle Larry, it's time for the quickest turnaround in the whole dizzying spectrum of consumerism! The Holy Mammon Day After Thanksgiving! America's newest and most popular holiday! Get your newly acquired fat thighs a-pumpin' toward the Wal-Mart because there's a sale on fat pants, and pretty much everyone in your family will need a pair this...um...Wristwatch?...Litmus?...oh, you know, this Holiday Sale's-on!

Let's just cut the crap, shall we? Let's just call the year's end by the name it so richly deserves. Santa Claus is the king of our Bethlehem; there's less and less room at the Holiday Inn for the real King of Israel with each passing December. It's a mad world, folks, and we need to wake up and smell the crazy.

Happy Meowlloween!

Mrs. Leo File is a very talented jack o'lanterneer, n'est-ce pas? Hope everyone has a creepy, disturbing Hallow's Eve. I realize this friggin' adorable pumpkin makes it rather difficult to sustain any viable sense of fear, but if you could have seen this same gourd this afternoon when I hurled its putrid, mold-infested pulpiness into the trash bin, you would have screamed in terror.

By the by, if you haven't heard the latest shocking election news, head on over to Forky's blog for an amazing update. Wind's in the east...mist comin' in...like somethin' is brewin' and 'bout to begin...

Oh, and here are the results of our attempted Halloween photo session with a certain recalcitrant kitty. Guess those Sears memory snaps are out of the question.

And the Penny Begins Its Descent...

So, just to prove (to myself, mostly) that I'm not the only voice of sanity in a world blindly crying out for Palin-genesis, I extend to you the following poll results.

Am I attempting to launch an entire argument in urge of celebration based on one poll? No. What sort of composition instructor could I claim to be with such lackluster, spotty evidence? But the proof will undoubtedly be in the pudding come Nov. 4th. Let us fervently hope that Polly Palin's antics have finally sunk ol' Maraudin' Maverick McCain's creepy pirate ship of a campaign.

Beyond the Palin

Here she is, ladies and gentlemen, the next President of the United States of America. Yep, you heard me right . . . President. Let's just face the facts, shall we? McCain is an old man. He's a very old man. He's 72, people. He will become our oldest inaugurated president if he wins the election, beating out poor ol' Ronnie by over three years! I'm talkin' OLD. And he's not exactly raisin' and ropin' broncos, either. His health's not so great, despite what we're being told by his campaign jockeys. He's had cancer. Lots of it. Admittedly, it was just melanoma, but the last instance was a rather serious invasive melanoma that required extensive surgery and some facial reconstruction. Add that to the fact that he looks like the photosensitive ghost children from the film The Others and you've got yourself the makings of a chronic condition.

And he's just plain old. I'm not an "ageist," whatever the hell that means. I don't go around belittling people because they're younger or older than I am; that makes about as much sense as my ridiculing those who are taller or shorter than I am, what I suppose the buzzwordsmiths would dub a "heightist." Nevertheless, only a fool would deny that health deteriorates with age. Sorry folks. Fact o' life.

And guess what often expedites the effects of age? Stress. And guess what's probably the most stressful job on the planet? College professor. But the presidency has to be a close second. Thus, we get Madame President Palin. Ohhh. I lost control of my bladder just typing that. Just take a look at some of her greatest hits.

On our "post-9/11 world" -
Gibson: We talk on the anniversary of 9/11. Why do you think those hijackers attacked? Why did they want to hurt us?
Palin: You know, there is a very small percentage of Islamic believers who are extreme and they are violent and they do not believe in American ideals, and they attacked us and now we are at a point here seven years later, on the anniversary, in this post-9/11 world, where we're able to commit to never again. They see that the only option for them is to become a suicide bomber, to get caught up in this evil, in this terror. They need to be provided the hope that all Americans have instilled in us, because we're a democratic, we are a free, and we are a free-thinking society.

On foreign policy and anyone who "hates what we stand for" -
Ifill: Secretaries of State Baker, Kissinger, Powell, they have all advocated some level of engagement with enemies. Do you think these former secretaries of state are wrong on that?
Palin: No and Dr. Henry Kissinger especially. I had a good conversation with him recently. And he shared with me his passion for diplomacy. And that's what John McCain and I would engage in also. But with some of these dictators who hate America and hate what we stand for, with our freedoms, our democracy, our tolerance, our respect for women's rights, those who would try to destroy what we stand for cannot be met with just sitting down on a presidential level as Barack Obama had said he would be willing to do. That is beyond bad judgment. That is dangerous.

On Alaska as the last great hope against invasion by the Russians -
Couric: You've cited Alaska's proximity to Russia as part of your foreign policy experience. What did you mean by that?
Palin: That Alaska has a very narrow maritime border between a foreign country, Russia, and, on our other side, the land-boundary that we have with Canada. It's funny that a comment like that was kinda mocked, I guess that's the word. Well, it certainly does, because our, our next-door neighbors are foreign countries, there in the state that I am the executive of. We have trade missions back and forth, we do. As Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where do they go? It's Alaska. It's just right over the border. It is from Alaska that we send those out to make sure that an eye is being kept on this very powerful nation, Russia, because they are right there, they are right next to our state.

On getting those worn-out troops some guns so they can hunt moose (priorities, you know) -
Palin: I heard from many Alaskans serving overseas during my trip to Kuwait in July. One of the most frequent questions was about the status of hunting seasons upon their return. While I can't grant our troops the chance to hunt in closed areas or in places with species restrictions, I do want to recognize them and help them hunt this late fall or winter when they get home.

Well, that's great. The economy's in the toilet, the Middle East is a bigger, hotter mess than ever before, and most of the rest of the world hates us, but at least the moose and caribou seasons will start on time. GOD HELP US IF SHE GETS WITHIN 50 MILES OF THE WHITE HOUSE!

Please, people, don't put this woman in charge of the free world. Vote Obama / Biden on Nov. 4.

Captain Emo

So I'm in this poetry workshop, right? Total B-sh!t, right? Yeah, you know? So I bring in my latest heartsong, and the blind fu(&ers can't see past the ends of their own poses, you know? I mean, I'm pounding out raw nerves, and all they have to send back is lame MAMA-TOLD-ME-TO-WASH-MY-HANDS propriety, you know? Sometimes, I mean, God!

I sing from the core of my being, yeah? No one tells me who I am, dammit! If I say that "Death relished my Dad," then that's what fu(&ing Death did to my Dad! Relished him! Damned fresh, that is, but not one of these EMPLOYEES-OF-THE-MONTH knows the first thing about fresh, yeah? They sit in a censor-circle every Wednesday night, waiting to SH!T on freshness, you know? They open their torture chests, drag out the usual IMPLEMENTS-OF-RESTRAINT: Rhythm, Meter, Purpose, Comprehendability, and they beat me with them for hours; gotta satisfy that sadism until somebody gets hurt. S. O. S. (SAME OPRESSIVE SH!T)

Ooh, real nice brain-bling, Professor Predictable, yeah? I'm going to haul out my dusty collection of factoids for you to choke on, you know? Go FU(& yourself! Take it back to the prison-house, turnkey! I know that "God's flesh hangs loose on a coathanger, like my sister's vulva," and I'm going to throw off your INTIMIDATION-JACKET to tell the world about it, right? I mean, right?

And . . . scene. Welcome to the world of "contemporary poetry," ladies and gentlemen, where rhyme and meter are parents who just don't understand, and historical or literary allusions are the tools of the fascist elite. Lord help me. Help me resist the temptation to go emo-stomping.

Thundering News

So, do you remember that little girl in Adventures in Babysitting? The one who wore the little helmet with wings through the whole movie? Yeah, that's kinda me.

Though Iron Man will always be my heart's favorite in the Marvel Universe of superheroes, I've been in awe of Thor since I was around five years old. He's not just a dude in tights with powers foisted accidentally on him in some dubious scientific snafu.

He's an honest to God...well...God.

And in case you haven't been up on your comics lately (as I am ashamed to admit I have not), he's back from the void of nonexistence, and he's pissed.

Apparently, my good pal Iron Man stole one of the Thunder God's golden locks way back when the Avengers first convened, and recently he went and made a, you guessed it, Thor-Clone. This abomination seriously insulted the Odinson, and he had to bring the hammer down on old Shellhead.

It...was...AWESOME. And the coolest part of the Thor saga is that Asgard is now hovering over Oklahoma, and Thor is traveling around waking up the other Norse gods.

And all of this is happening in the comics just as they have announced the Thor movie project, slated for 2010. Oh, it's a wonderful time to be alive and a comic nerd.

Felis Satanicus

Do not adjust your blogs, ladies and gentlemen. You have my word that this image has not been doctored in any way. In fact, you can read the whole freaky story here. The really sad part of the tale, however, is that they named him "Yoda." Yoda?! You have so many wonderful opportunities to indulge your wit in assigning this rare animal a name and you choose Yoda?!!

What about "Dr. Faustus"? What about "Beelzebuffy"? What about "Meowphistophiles," for pity's sake?! I mean, I would have even settled for the predictable "Hellcat" before I'd have agreed to the completely non sequitur Yoda. Some people just have no imagination.

Don't Judge Me

Bored? Enjoy creating original animation? Just hopelessly nerdy? Well, have I got the waste-your-time website for you. Go immediately to Create Your Own Superhero at Marvel.com and pretend you're Stan Lee for an hour. Excelsior!

All Glory to St. Michael!

Is anyone else tired of this fellow? Sure, he can swim. I'll admit that. But is that reason enough to declare him a demigod? Are we Greek? Given the ponderous piles of word-worship the Olympic commentators have heaped upon the Phelps altar over the past couple of weeks, I don't think we're far away from erecting a Liberty-scale statue of him in Ann Arbor. Something like this...

Why is it always so easy for someone who's exceptionally good at something athletic to become a hero? Do they really deserve such complete adoration? If aliens invaded tomorrow, what good would Phelps be in defending us from the attack? What would he do, shame them into retreat by soundly beating them in the 200m? I mean, at least the Greeks chose heroes who could legitimately defend them from the wrath of foreign invaders or the gods, truly heroic men like Hercules, Achilles, Theseus, Perseus, and Odysseus. But whom do we choose? These people.

If these are our champions, then we should probably prepare ourselves for a pretty sound alien beatdown. People are so anxious to indulge in narcissistic hero-worship that they will pledge their undying allegiance to any pan-flashing celebrity who reminds them most of themselves. I think it was Bertolt Brecht who once wrote: "Unhappy is the land that needs a hero." Too true, Mr. Brecht, but I think I would revise that statement to read, "Unhappy is the land that collects heroes like action figures."

Oxford Across the Water

Well, folks, I am attempting to upload my first England video to blogger this evening, so you will have to let me know if it actually works for anyone besides myself. Technology is a fickle hag, and there's no telling whether she'll give you butterfly kisses or stab you in the back.

Anyway, for better or worse, here it is. Enjoy.

And there's more where this came from . . . Stay tuned.

Homecoming

Imagine a darkened room, permeated with the mouth-watering aroma of roast beef, warm ale, and pipe tobacco. Imagine a small, unassuming corner table next to a modest hearth just past the bar.

Then imagine a man in a heavy tweed coat bustling in from the street, beads of rain dotting his leather satchel and the glint of firelight reflecting off of the buttons on his ornate waistcoat. Already seated at the corner table is a man with a high forehead, his hands folded neatly in front of him and a small Bible lying open near his arm. Next imagine each of these two learned gentlemen acknowledging the other with a courteous nod and brief salutation.

"Morning, Tollers. Beastly weather, isn't it?"

"Morning, Jack. The wind practically ripped my coat from my shoulders during the ride down Banbury. But I've got some more of my nonsense to show you."

Then imagine the newly arrived man throwing back the flap on his satchel and drawing out a bundle of worn-edged papers. And on those coffee-stained pages...well, you can just imagine what immortal stories those florid, graceful strokes might entail. Such may have been a Monday morning meeting of the Oxford Inklings at the old Bird & Baby.

And I ate an Angus burger at that very table. Awesome.

The Reluctant Return

Much as Hadrian and Trajan before him (pictured here on the right) were compelled to relinquish control of their British province to their unworthy successors, I was compelled to come home from my foray overseas. Needless to say, I will visit the beauteous island of Britannia again someday, but for now, unfortunately, duty calls here in the boring ol' USA (aka "Wannabe England").

There will be much more to come in the way of holiday snaps, of course. Just at present, however, I'm rather knackered, so you'll have to excuse me for a bit while I have a lovely kip in me own bed. Cheers for now, mates.

Land of Hope and Glory

Well, blogblokes and blogbirds, the time has finally come. I will have my hands too full tomorrow to post anything legible and coherent, so consider this as my last broadcast for a fortnight. England beckons, and finally, I shall answer the call. I will be in contact with you Yanks via the Web, so feel free to send me your messages, questions, suggestions, and what not.

When (and if) I return, I shall plaster my photos all over my blogspace like an anglo-maniac. I will miss you all, and I sincerely wish you could all come along with me on this most life-changing of journeys.

God Save the Queen.

Oxford's Calling, Too

I'm going here . . .

And here...

And here . . .

And here . . .

And, most appropriately, here . . .

Where is this, you ask? Did you note the unobtrusive plaque on the wall above the hearth?

That's right. You may commence with the envious groaning.