Tagged: family

“Friday was good. Saturday was good.” – A Short Story.

Whatever similarity the following short story has to a real conversation last night, a conversation between a husband and wife, I assure the reader that the account is one sided and therefore pure fiction—at least according to all the women.

Our south facing bedroom was dark and remained so despite the sounds of a few belated fireworks which our extraordinarily wealthy and patriotic neighbors to the north were letting fly. I had just plugged my phone in and put it in its final resting place on the nightstand. I remained on my side, facing out, my back to my wife. I had a good amount of covers to work with and couldn’t help but release a final chuckle-turned-outright-laugh at The Office blooper short we had just watched.

Friday was good. Saturday was good. Today had been alright.

There was a pleasant mood for those two days as my wife, bless her heart, had not had a chance in hell to work and so was herself at ease and agreeable for once. She seemed to have truly come to peace with the fact that the great serpent of old, the one with the red, scaly appearance and bifurcated tongue, seemed to genuinely not be her husband. Can you understand what I am trying to say, reader? Married life felt kind of normal.

I decided to test the waters and say something true. I knew it was a risk, but I was feeling risky.

“J- seems to actually need a few days to warm up to me every week that I am home. It’s like he becomes softer as the days go by,” I said. Truth be told, halfway through my brief report, I started to wonder if she was even awake anymore.

“I don’t understand, Baliye,” she replied.

I suppose I ought to clarify here that Baliye is her heathen tongue’s ‘my husband’.

“I’m saying,” I started again, “that I can feel that J-, while happy to see me when I first come back home from my week away, seems to take a few days before he fully relaxes and becomes himself. It’s hard to pick exact behavior differences, but I feel it,” I continued. I didn’t share the one instance that was on my mind, the at church earlier when I had pulled him back from the center aisle into the pew. I sat him next to me again and looked down at him, placing my stern, glaring but sparkly-eyed face right over his. He looked up at me and purposely bonked his nose into mine. He does that sometimes. But not on day one, two, or three. Anyhow, I continued, “And the other week, when I was making a trip to load the car before leaving, he actually burst out crying, saying he thought he told me that he wanted a hug before I left.”

I paused for a few seconds. And then picked it up again, “It’s hard to believe he will actually be home for one more whole year before he goes off to kindergarten.”

I had done it. Or I had thought I had done it. I have long held the belief, informed by who knows what, that women, even depressed, selfish, greedy, complaining wives, want to hear what their husbands really think and notice about the family. Like I thought there was a universal truth: every wife, at any moment loves to hear her husband express something that sounds vulnerable and comes across as intimate.

I was proud. Dare I say I thought I deserved a reward? No, I dare not. I honestly just felt like giving. Like I said, Friday was good and Saturday was good.

She then says, “There is a school nearby, R-, I think-”

-there is no force as yet studied by students of natural science that can cause boiling faster than the words I was hearing-

“-which has a preschool, like three days a week.”

(Here the copy of this fictional tale which I found seems to be missing a paragraph of caps-lock ferociousness.)

She responds, “You said what you think. But I can’t say what I think?”

I think is she genuinely unaware of how conversations work? “No, mee-stee-yay, no. You don’t get to say what you think. Not when the person who spoke before you just expressed how happy they were at a set of circumstances and your thought is a brainstorm of how to destroy those circumstances.” (Mistiye is the heathen ‘my wife’.)

Friday was good. Saturday was good.

Review of the Christian Nationalist (haha) Stage Musical, “Finding America”

I have a friend who, in short, helped shuttle the worried BIPOC migrants around Minneapolis during last winter’s Surge. He loved PTA’s One Battle After Another. And we had a few conversations exploring the Talerico-style interpretation of Jesus.

That friend is to whom I texted pictures of the auditorium. This was the screen.

We bantered back and forth for a minute about how different this crowd likely was from the No Kings rally in San Francisco that his trip there had randomly allowed him to witness. My main point was despite all expectations, my room was pretty diverse (mostly due to international crowd), whereas the No Kings crowd is almost exclusively white (and not internationally relevant).

I put the phone away and sat back, unsure of what to expect.

Afterwords, I sent him the following notes, accompanied by the program/scene descriptions.

Here, I want to take a moment to flesh these observations out a bit.

“Nothing like the Lefties would expect”

I like to believe that I am very sensitive and in touch with the passing scene. In other words, I don’t need communists’ help to notice the group or subgroup known as “Christian Nationalists.”

The difference (besides the fact that I am no longer hell bound, Glory Hallelujah!) between the Lefties and me, however, is I will bravely enter the CN’s den. And guess what? The Lefties have it all wrong. The main problem with their imaginations is that white supremacy has no part in Christian Nationalism.

Again, white supremacy is certainly a reality for some folks, no different than Christian Nationalism is real. But the two are not linked. Here’s how I know. Ever since I married an immigrant from Ethiopia, I have dreaded the experience of being around “whites”. You know who I mean. Those people who need to compensate for something by making a point to come over and chat. I know who they are because I am the same person I have always been—and they never showed interest. But now that there is some manner of compensatory atonement available, they are chatty Kathy. Again, I don’t avoid these moments, but I dread them.

But here’s the point: among these Christian Nationalists, we were totally ignored. Ignored by Hindustan-ians (Dot not feather), Europeans, Africans, Asians, etc. The group was legitimately diverse.

“Somehow Not Silly”

Anytime adults play-act as GW and William Tyndale and pilgrims and settlers and Indians (feather not dot) and colonial Blacks anymore, I totally expect silliness. And I know this is the result of the Left’s influence on me. And yet this Stage Musical was somehow not silly. My gut says that it was because even these Christian Nationalists are very aware of the criticism the Left has launched at overly romantic portrayals of colonialism and colonial times in America. So the script just avoids landmines.

I also commented to my wife (who had spent a couple days earlier in the week at the Family Camp and was the reason we went yesterday) that sometimes the phrase “loosely based on true events” is used. And that in this case, the “looseness was so loose that it would be difficult to say they even were making historical claims that could be verified or found wanting.” But I am on Vol 5. of GW’s biography and can comfortably feel the thematic relationship to history. In short, the musical definitely claimed “historical accuracy” but not completeness. And in this, it succeeded.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t comment on the whole Christian part of the lesson. Does it take more than one Indian Christian, more than one Black Christian to teach us that Jesus died for all? No, no it does not. I can’t make their decision for them, no different than I can make your decision for you.

“Easier to pick on audience than the performance.”

I have young kids. The effect this has on me is that I enjoy the idea of dressing or acting more loudly than my “quiet professionals”, special operations trained self would otherwise allow. I don’t wear an American flag as clothing, but I do like being around people who do. And I might get there someday.

Just the same, it is merely fun to me. And it bedazzles even me. Are these people serious? Or just having likewise fun? I can’t always tell. But again, the performance was so polished that it would be difficult to mock. And this was not the case regarding certain stars and bars bedecked citizens.

“Attracting Out Group”

I would include more links etc, but the website bills the show for today and yesterday only. And this is part of my issue with this idea of these uber Christian events (Chosen being most well-known, ergo most egregiously guilty) as evangelism. How would a non-believer even know about these things? And I am number one movie-fan and music-fan on earth when it comes to flatly admitting the best of secular music/movies/shows is generally incomparably more appealing than religious attempts. There is just something missing in Christian attempts at entertainment. I would say it is the fear of impurity. But whatever it is, the whole idea that Finding America or Chosen is on par with Broadway and Hollywood or even “close enough” is laughable to me.

Hear me clearly: in evangelism the goal is to faithfully proclaim the Gospel of Jesus Christ, the same one the Bible writers do. This includes your actions too.

Final Thought

I like talking and contemplating politics. I love America. I fully believe American-led, Western Civilization is unique and a great boon for the inhabitants of planet Earth. And this belief is the result of great study and wide experience among different cultures and conditions. I went to the musical because our other plans here in tinderbox Colorado were cancelled and I wanted the kids to see Christian Nationalists for what they were. I would go again because it is fun to be around people who like life—not for a history lesson or to learn from it. That’s what books are for.

Oh. Final, final thought. Did my kids do anything to indicate they have a brain? Good question. Yes. The performance opened with some GW revolutionary war scenes, and when they switched to the Christian/church history stuff, unprompted, A- (5.87 yr old) turned to me (after declaring that she thought it must be night outside because it was so dark inside) and said, “Now they’re talking about Jesus.”

That’s all I could ask of a person. Discernment.

Dad vs. Park Grandma

A- (5.85 yrs old), J- (4.25), and I biked 2+ miles to our favorite park. No training wheels. No issues. It wasn’t the first time.

Somehow, once at the park, while walking their bikes, I heard a noise and turned to see J- had fallen. Two moms nearby fulfilled their unsolicited and unhelpful duty of pitying the boy. I pedaled on, wondering why my progeny ever got off their bikes.

After our lunch at the park, it was now A-’s turn to make a noise while falling which attracted my attention. This time it was a nearby, skinny grandma who lurched and wobbled in indecision as she couldn’t decide her place in the wide world.

I, projecting loud enough to be sure this skinny (I want to say “crackhead” but you’ll think I’m judgy) grandma would hear, said, “She’s okay! She’s okay. Bruce Wayne’s dad let him pick himself up, and he became Batman. So I figure that’s the best way.”

I would’ve expected silence, and maybe a chuckle. I mean, what options had I left open for response anyhow? Firstly, it ain’t her kid and the father made his pronouncement—even giving the reason. Secondly, mind your own business, especially when a father is around.

But nooooooo.

She replied, “Or how ‘bout she just has girl power?”

It’s been over an hour and I am still under a disturbed spirit.

If my daughter had girl power, if girl power existed, then she wouldn’t have fallen, ya stoop-id b-!

No, ma’am. My daughter doesn’t have girl power. She has a dad. And her dad likes Batman, especially in the role of allegory. And her dad knows that humans of both sexes fall down, and when that happens, the only thing to do—the best practice for all places and times—is to let kids learn how to pick themselves up.

The Value of Communicating Waters Cannot Be Understated

In reading Vol 4 of Washington Irving’s Life of George Washington (taken together with my memories of Africa’s chapter in Conquests and Cultures by Thomas Sowell) I cannot help but walk away with the thought that it cannot be overstated how valuable waterways which can be navigated by large ships are.

If you need an easy to remember, due to superlatives, summary of the history of life on planet Earth (how has it unfolded), as told by winners, it is this: victory has come to those people who were interested in communicating aloud with the most people, the most frequently, and who were able to command the waters which communicated the heaviest amounts of goods, the farthest distances, at the fastest speeds.

In short, open-minded, talkative, and good-listening entrepreneurs on the banks of waterways of significant depth and breadth hold the keys to the Kingdom of Earth.

Maybe My First Podcast Recommendation Ever

I can’t recall ever using this blog to recommend a podcast episode before. In any case, I haven’t done it often. But I just listened to one that is a “must listen”, if such a thing exists.

It is Peter Robinson’s latest. He interviews a historian on the topic of The History of Communist China. (It is just over an hour.)

Do you know any communists? If so, listen.

Have you somehow marooned yourself and your WordPress Reader alone on an island? If so, listen.

Let’s just say, upon completing the episode, I have begun teaching A- and J- (5 and 4 respectively) two general and absolute truths. (I do it catechism-style, Q&A.)

Firstly, What is the first defense against communists? The first defense against communists is books—communists hate books.

Secondly, Who do guns protect us from? Guns protect us from communists.

In the same vein, it seems now is as good of time as ever to share another national security proverb my young progeny get to repeat, “The Democrats are not the fifth column.”

On Juneteenth’s Despair

Anyone else’s read of the passing scene include that the Juneteenth folks are desperate? They are even more lame than most pastors and evangelists. No matter how ambiguously noble they make their particular “holiday” sound, no matter how much of the population they invite, no matter how family friendly they make it, I will never celebrate Juneteenth.

Why?

Because it is rooted in victimhood.

Lincoln didn’t wait for someone to tell him it was okay to be free. Neither did GW or TJ.

The slaves, however, waited. The enslaved waited. And they always will wait. That’s what makes them slaves. That what allows them to become enslaved.

So “no”, my family and I won’t be celebrating.

Their cause isn’t noble. Their invitation isn’t sincere. And the whole family friendly ploy is a joke. If bounce houses had any value, world peace would have broken out, starting in urban neighborhoods—last generation.

Museum Quality TDS, South Park Quality Indoctrination, and Food—My Trip to Rushmore and Crazy Horse

Anyone who has ever visited a custom framing store knows that the easiest upsell in the universe is museum quality glass. For the uninitiated, the glass companies, or whoever, provide this shadow box which holds an item—usually a yellow tassel—behind what appears to be one half of a pane of glass. That’s the gimmick. It appears like there is no glass on one half. But there is. And now you’re hooked. How could you ever cover any framed object with a dirty window?

Naturally, this museum quality glass gets its name from its use in museums—these carefully curated places of unfiltered history. Or at least that’s how I think of museums. Sure, there are going to be words of explanation besides the clear-glass-encased pieces and sure these words will naturally be written with an agenda of some sort. But the objects behind the unseen glass are the real communicators.

Luckily for us, this is still the case with Mt Rushmore. You see, I just took the kids to visit it—A- had learned about it in kindergarten. And all I can say is I am happy to report the museum piece was worth it. Because the description was sorely lacking.

The video presentation, which spent a lot of time on the importance of the right type of rock for such a project, had a line, “Years later, the artist (I can’t recall his name) was asked if there was enough room for another face and he said, ‘No’.”

TDS has infected a national memorial. Firstly, if Trump wants his face on it, he will get it done—and in gold. Secondly, the Left is somehow afraid of this man. What has he done to them besides disagree and name call? It’s incredible to witness their fear.

Oh, and did you know women and minorities helped create Mt Rushmore?

It is impossible—literally you can see both from the road—to not want to go to check out the Johnny-come-lately Indians’ effort while in the Rushmore area. Of course, I mean Crazy Horse.

Unfortunately, for anyone who has ever seen South Park, the experience is uneasy. Rushmore charges $10 to park. And the entire site is built to last—lots of stone and whatever that fake but permanent wood is called that decks can be built out of. Bathrooms are great. Viewing area is great. The whole experience is great.

But the Crazy Horse experience is embarrassing. They have a fee schedule—to include $10(!) to walk up. And a car load is $35. The entire monument (which will be epic at a LOTR level if they ever get smart and finish it) is very far away. Everything about the place is VHS in a world of 4K streaming—and I mean the kind of chasm involved in visiting your distant relatives whose TV/VCR combo unit isn’t flat, let alone do they have two bathrooms.

We watched a video (as recommended) to continue the post-parking lot experience which began with actually handing a just-received physical ticket to a gatekeeper. The movie was informative, and it contained the key flaw to the concept: the belief in adherence to unduly stubborn principles.

Again, back at Rushmore we were informed us that the artist and his son barely touched the mountain—instead they directed the many workers.

Crazy Horse’s artist was the sole worker, at least to start. And from Rushmore’s crew.

Rushmore took 14 years.

Crazy horse is 78 and no horse in sight.

I understand TTP (Trust the Process) and am living proof that it is true. Also, I cannot stress enough how cool the final monument will be. I am also totally fine with the tragic concept behind the project, that of an Indian pointing to where his home was—even though it necessarily carries the false idea that losers were participants in an unfair fight.

Back to the visit, we next perused what there was to peruse and noticed that in only 8 minutes there would be a proper drum and dance performance.

We took our seats and proceeded to listen to a real (looking) lady Indian dressed in real (looking) Indian gear lecture us for 50 minutes of an hour, on how the 600 tribes of Indians were living in perfect harmony, how they forecast Einstein’s E=mc2, and how the word “Sioux” means “snake”.

It was a family affair, we learned. So her 10 year old daughter came out and sang a short Indian song. And then her 19 year old daughter came out and danced two dances, accompanied by iPhone drums (probably not AI song) over loudspeakers, in a dress strung with hundreds of bell-looking things that sounded like kazoos jingling.

I need to emphasize here: I understand totally the concept of “talk before eat”. It is impossible to serve free food and then ask people to stay for a free lecture. Main attractions have to come last, I get it. But the lecture was 5/6ths of the allocated time and rife with inaccuracies—she even pointed out the brains of buffaloes were used to oil the hides.

(See Wilder’s settler’s written description of “butchering day” for context.)

Anyhow, after driving away, and while tearing down our campsite the next morning (have I mentioned I am an Eagle Scout and quite literally one of the Last Boy Scouts?), it hit me. These people need to, firstly, tell the truth about how tragic and brutal life was before civilization approached and conquered. Secondly, after starting with the depressing, they need to regain some face and their only way to do that is to highlight proudly (and most welcomed-ly) all the ways the Indian ways influenced and sustains the dominant civilization—like, say, Indian Guides, Boy Scouts, chief, army helicopter titles (blackhawk, kiowa etc).

Lastly, the food at Rushmore is exactly what I imagined food in communist countries is like—terrible. But guess what?! The entire restaurant facility is award winning in its “green”-ness. I mean, consider this. The restaurant which serves terrible food (except the ice cream of course) is award winning: “Feel good about how the preparation and housing of the terrible, and overpriced, food adheres to irrelevant, purpose-less government guidelines.”

This brings me to my concluding advice: the food at Crazy Horse smelled really good—even to a full stomach. So don’t let any of my criticism deter you from seeing both monuments. But skip Rushmore’s restaurant and donate your money to the Crazy Horse food crowd instead of the commies.

Finally, two illustrative pics.

One Teeny, Tiny Flaw

I remember catching my mom in a bookstore aisle, kind of tucked away once. The book she was reading was self-help for “control freaks”. Understand, then, that she was the control freak in our family, and my sense of the encounter was that she was embarrassed that her son had seen that maybe she didn’t want to be.

I barely need to repeat the following, but for the unfaithful readers, please accept without question that my wife isn’t in love with yours truly anymore.

Books actually play a pivotal role in the drama, albeit in an unpredictable way. One of her main complaints to me, about my way of life, is that all my book reading does not lead to more money.

For my part, one of my main “asks” of her is that she stop reading the latest Christian bestselling “health and wealth” sermon transcripts masquerading as books. And truthfully, I don’t care that she reads them, but I would like her to read, at least some of the time, real books—not “The Secret” part 73. I mean even pulp fiction or Louis L’Amour or whatever is flying off the grocery store shelves these days.

This last time home, I saw an unfamiliar book stacked upon her bible called something like, “How to Live With A Manipulative Husband”.

Do you see the problem, folks? It’s easy to miss, so I understand if you don’t.

As for me, I am seriously considering putting out a best seller for us husbands. What do you say?

The title will be, “How to Smarten Up Your Wife AND Get Her to Stop Buying Crap.” Or maybe, “How to Make Your Wife Understand That She Doesn’t Need Makeup and Wigs Just Because All Other Women Wear Them.”

This might need to be a series, actually.

Another could be, “How to Live with a Woman Who, as It Turns Out, Is an Immature Child Who Lacks the Ability to Reason.”

Then there could be one on, “When Your Wife Married You, But Listens to Every Other Human Being Who Has Ever Uttered Speech Sounds Instead.”

The capstone, and I mean Fifty Shades of Grey success, will, of course, be, “How to Actually Get Your Wife to Stop Complaining and Be Happy.”

Men of the blogosphere, I’ve got you pegged as less than 10% of my readership. But what say you? Would you pay to unlock these secrets?

Thuck-Y-Dideez

I first heard of Thucydides in college. This would have been 2001-ish. We weren’t studying him, but the professor needed to make a point and used the classic “Athens-open, Sparta-closed” historian to do so. Along the way, the professor interlaced a story about how a student came to him complaining about the reading and pronounced thoo-sih-di-deez: Thuck-Y-Dideez.

Funny stuff.

I do not know what the Thucydides Trap is, but I want to post an informed guess before I google it. What did Xi mean when he used the phrase?

Before I reveal my surmise, I want to add here that a chinaman using a western anecdote is real evidence that America and the West are already winning the war with China. And rightly so, since we’re obviously the more relevant civilization.

Okay. That said. What is the “Thucydides Trap” that we hope to avoid?

War.

(Wish me luck in my AI-ing for confirmation/information.)