I've been working on editing my grandfather's journal of his 1965 Yankee station cruise, the last of his career, off and on for more than a year. I always end up putting it aside because it is just too difficult for me to deal with on so many levels. Reading it makes me angry, outraged, and very sad. He was serving on an old World War II-era carrier that had been hit twice by kamikazes, killing hundreds of sailors, the ghosts of some of whom still seemed to inhabit it. All the grease in the expansion joints had been burned out and it creaked and groaned like an old man with arthritis. Their air strikes against North Viet Nam had destroyed all crucial targets, including 70 percent of the country's POL supplies, within two weeks and there was nothing of value left to bomb, yet still Washington insisted on air strikes against a country the economy of which was based on bicycles and water buffalo. Robert McNamara personally harassed the CAG with calls refusing to accept the accuracy of the after-action reports he was reviewing and demanding they be altered to show better results. He even dictating the number of sorties each pilot should fly daily and what the bomb load of each aircraft should be. And all the while they were losing more airplanes than they had during the Guadalcanal campaign. McNamara demanded that stop, that pilots should bring their battle-damaged planes back to the carrier to be repaired rather than ejecting to save their lives. Well, you can guess what that led to, those planes that could make it back to the carrier crashed attempting to land and not only air crew but flight deck personnel became casualties. My grandfather wrote passionately of how he did not want his son, my father, to become a naval aviator, but did not know how to dissuade him. And he didn't. Seven years later my father was flying combat missions over North Viet Nam.
When you're all cried out, you might as well laugh.
A dear friend, who completed five deployments to Iraq and three to Afghanistan, suffering for years from brutal PTSD as well as pain from injuries -- he had been blown up and shot so many times that he couldn't remember them all. Really. He would have been killed long ago if it were not for his PPE. But that doesn't prevent all injuries, to the extremities, of course, but also and especially internal organ damage and brain trauma --; well, he decided he had had enough of this world, the final bug-out of the 'stan was really the last straw, and went on ahead, leaving his wife, who had stood by him all these years, no matter what, utterly bereft, and his children lost. I once asked him why he didn't get out of the service and let it all go. But he said he couldn't do that. If he didn't go someone else would have to, and it was better he did it. And besides, he couldn't abandon the guys in his unit. They needed his combat savvy to make it safely through their deployments. I understand that.
I was talking with my mom about how we remember or imagine the past to have been. We always recall or envision it to be better than it was for those living it at the time. All the distressing details have vanished and there is only left a golden glow of good times. Well, what's wrong with that? We're not actually ever going to go back in time, so why not imagine it the way we want it to be?
We also talked about music and how men and women differ in their tastes. Guys love music that when they listen to it in their cars they end up driving 100 miles an hour. Girls prefer music that makes them wistful and if it makes them cry, so much the better. Guys will wonder why on earth would you want to listen to music that makes you cry, but, you know, sometimes you just need a good cry for no reason at all. It's a female thing. Males wouldn't understand.
Anyway, this tune combines both my affection for times gone by that I never lived through and my need to sob into my spiked sarsaparilla. Oh, and I like to dance to it, too. And it's nice to know lots of other people do like the old songs and songs composed and performed in the old way.
I thought I'd check out what the top songs of 2021 were and my eye caught something called "Thot Shit," a very popular production (more than 40 million YouTube views in six months), 'though I'd never heard of it. So out of curiosity I clicked on it.
Mistake.
Hands on my knees, shakin' ass, on my thot shit Post me a pic, finna make me a profit When the liquor hit, then a bitch get toxic (Why the fuck you in the club with niggas wildin'?) I've been lit since brunch, thot shit...
And on and on, getting worse as it goes along. Maybe a third of the lyrics I didn't even understand at all. But what the lyrics seemed to be was essentially an id howl shouting I am great, I am better than anyone else, but exulting in a life of utter pointlessness depicted in the crudest way possible.
I don't get it. Who listens to this? Why? The song may baffle and repel me, but obviously I am an outlier, merely a weirdo freak with oddball tastes. The rest of the modern world enjoys and understands this type of entertainment.
I mentally staggered back and regretted my peek into the present. Whatever this...this...civilization -- if it deserves that name -- is, it's got nothing to do with what came before, the grand civilization, sweet and decent in its pop culture and magnificent and awe-inspiring in its high culture that existed just a few decades ago. Gone. All gone. And as likely to come back as Periclean Athens or Florence of the Renaissance.
Well, to hell with it all. I will go back in reverie to that world that was and ignore today. You may well say that I can choose to ignore the present but the present won't ignore me. I suppose. But for as long as I can, to the extent that I can, I will ignore it. Life is short and soon over. Maybe I can make it across the river before the tidal wave of horror overwhelms me. But what of the next generation? Our children? All I can think to do is rescue and pass on to them as much of our ancient cultural heritage, high and low, as I can, so that they can know there was once a world of beauty, happiness, love and sincere emotions, a world worth living in.
On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand, And cast a wishful eye To Canaan’s fair and happy land,
Near the cross I’ll watch and wait Hoping, trusting ever, Till I reach the golden strand, Just beyond the river.
PS: Looky what I found. Seems like I'm not alone in loathing the new after all. But, you know, it's a bad sign when your culture can no longer generate art and entertainment that your own people have any interest in. A really bad sign.
"Old songs now represent 70
percent of the U.S. music market, according to the latest numbers from
MRC Data, a music-analytics firm. ... The new-music market is actually shrinking. All the growth in the
market is coming from old songs.
The 200 most popular new tracks now regularly account for less than 5 percent of total streams.
That rate was twice as high just three years ago. The mix of songs
actually purchased by consumers is even more tilted toward older music.
I
encountered this phenomenon myself recently at a retail store, where
the youngster at the cash register was singing along with Sting on 'Message in a Bottle'(a hit from 1979) as it blasted on the radio. A
few days earlier, I had a similar experience at a local diner, where the
entire staff was under 30 but every song was more than 40 years old. I
asked my server: 'Why are you playing this old music?' She looked at me
in surprise before answering: 'Oh, I like these songs.'
Never
before in history have new tracks attained hit status while generating
so little cultural impact. In fact, the audience seems to be embracing
the hits of decades past instead. New songs that become bona fide hits can
pass unnoticed by much of the population."
Click to enlarge the images, or open the image in a new tab and enlarge. I hope you can read the text. It tells so much about what a thoughtful, understanding, magnanimous people we once were. We honored our fallen foes and allowed them dignity in defeat. We tore down no statues.
Why did that change? What advantage has accrued to us by changing? Did we voluntarily change, or were we manipulated or forced into changing? Or have we not changed but are simply no longer in control of our own country? If we are not, who is?
I dropped by a local mom and pop general store the other day to pick up something. Alas, and to my surprise, they were out of stock. I got to talking with the cashier/proprietor and she said that they were out of 35 percent of the items they normally carry. Looking around the store, the shelves seemed full. But, as she pointed out and phrased it, there were "a lot of some things and a lot of no things."
“The government is merely a servant; it cannot be its prerogative to determine what is right and what is wrong, and decide who is a patriot and who isn't.” ~ Mark Twain
An acquaintance operates a recruiting agency that he founded after he graduated from business school almost 20 years ago. He survived the 2008 economic crash but isn't sure he will make it this time. Hardly anyone is hiring in the fields he services, and when they are, no one is applying. I asked how badly he had been hit. He said he only billed about a million dollars last year. I had no idea employment agencies were so lucrative, not that I'd ever thought about it. I said so you are still making pretty good money anyway. But he shook his head. In 2019 he had billed over eight million dollars.
“The present facts are that the world is insane.” ― Martin Luther
I stopped by a local diner to have their grilled cheese-and-jalapeño sandwich and garlic fries dusted with chili powder and began chatting with an old guy (he said he was 85) who had been sitting a few stools away but moved over next to me with his coffee and pie. He said he hoped I didn't mind but he hated to eat a alone. He offered to buy me a slice of key lime pie but I passed but did accept his offer of a cup of coffee. He began talking about the swell times he had back in the horse-and-buggy days, a subject I never tire of hearing about. One thing he said struck me. He said that as a child he was taught that the road to success in life was to be diligent, humble and sincere. People would notice and you would be rewarded. He said that had been true when he was young but that at some point it changed and the brash, bungling boasters had taken over. It's all crap now, he said. The counterman, who had been half listening, came over then and asked the old guy if there was something wrong with his pie.
“He did not give a damn for the world or the universe or heaven or hell. But he liked women.” ― John Fante
Does the "wop" in doo-wop refer to Italians? Just kidding. But there sure were a lot of Italian singing groups and solo artists back when -- Bobby Rydell, Fabian, Frankie Avalon, Bobby Darin, Connie Francis, Freddy Cannon, Frankie Valli, Connie Stevens, Santo and Johnny, Dion.... They practically owned pop music. I got to thinking about Italian-Americans after I read
something about them being denigrated as nothing but gangsters and
thugs that our country would have been better off without. I put down my
pizza slice and set aside my glass of Chianti, turned off the Frank
Sinatra recording and pondered.
A
few years ago I participated in an oral history project to record the
memories of World War II vets before they passed from the scene. My
assignment was a retired insurance salesman who had flown P-40s with the
325th Fighter Group, the Checkertails, in North Africa and Italy. One
of the stories he told was about the time he was shot down by ground
fire during the invasion of Sicily. He was fished out of the water near
a small village by some fishermen who brought him to shore where he was
met by a delegation that included the mayor, the village school teacher
and the local Fascist party official. The mayor's wife took his
soaking wet and tattered uniform to be washed and mended. Then he had
lunch with the mayor's family and the others. The Fascist party official
wanted to know why Americans -- Americans!
--
were attacking them. They all loved America. And, as it turned out,
the school teacher had been born in New York City and only came to
Sicily to visit his grandparents, then got stuck there when the US entered
the European war. The mayor had worked for 25 years in construction in
St. Louis and retired to his native village. His children and grandchildren were scattered throughout the States. The Fascist had never been
to America but his brother lived in New Jersey. So they all had a
jolly meal, deciding not to discuss the war or politics but baseball.
How was Joe DiMaggio doing? Later some British paras arrived in the
town and the Fascist made himself scarce. My P-40 pilot greeted the
Brits in company with the mayor and school teacher, welcoming them and
informing them there were no soldiers in the town nor anything of
military value. The paras were suspicious of the trio, especially the
pilot, who, when they asked for ID, could not provide any because his
credentials were with his uniform, which was off being mended. The
Brits decided all three were spies and planned to shoot them, then roust
the inhabitants of the town and detain all males. But before they
could carry out their plans a patrol of Americans commanded by an
Italian-American arrived and things got straightened out over a few
bottles of wine and a nice dinner.
The cowboy is a man who possesses resilience, patience, and an instinct
for survival. Cowboys get climbed on, rained on, snowed on,
kicked, battered by the wind, burned by the sun. The cowboy's job is just to take it.
It doesn't require courage as it's commonly thought of to do that. It demands
stoicism.
To be tough on a ranch has nothing to do with combativeness or macho strutting. It's about dealing with what you have to deal with and can't turn away from. That's what a cowboy does, handle situations that are trying to overwhelm him. He routinely faces such things as the horse he’s riding miles from anywhere breaking a leg or a sudden rock fall knocking him senseless, blocking the trail and trapping him in a coulee. When he comes to, his head is bleeding and hurts like hell, and his horse has wandered off and is nuzzling a clump of jimson weed.
In a rancher’s world, courage has less to do with facing danger than with acting quickly, correctly and without regard to injury to oneself to help an animal in your charge or another rider. If a cow is stuck in a bog hole, the cowpoke throws a loop around her neck, takes his dally and pulls her out with horsepower. If a calf is born sick, he takes it home, warms it in front of the kitchen fire, and massages its legs till dawn.
One cowhand, whose horse was trying to swim a lake with hobbles on, dove under water and cut its legs free, then swam it to shore, his arm around its neck lifeguard-style, and saved it from drowning. Another, working on foot with border collies to herd some cow brutes, carried one of the dogs more than two miles in his arms over rough ground when it stepped in a bear trap and had its paw nearly severed. He tourniqueted the leg, calmed the hysterical dog as it struggled and bit at him in its pain and fear, then trudged for an hour up and down dry washes to his truck, drove to the line shack, sewed up the wound and settled the dog, then drove and hiked back to where he was working and finished getting the cattle out of the mess they had gotten themselves into.
Because these incidents are usually linked to someone or something outside himself, the cowboy’s courage is selfless, a form of compassion, of empathy. He becomes used to thinking about the welfare of others, animal and man and land, and not about himself. If he doesn't, he doesn't make it as a cowboy. He probably heads for the swarming, foul, me-me mobs of the city with their self-centered hedonistic ethos.
The physical punishment that goes with cowboying is brutal. When I asked one cowboy if he was sick as he struggled to his feet at the bunkhouse one morning, he replied, "No'm, just bent." Cowboys do not complain. They laugh at their failures and injuries and at what fools they are for doing the job. They are the kind of men who, if they accidentally cut off their foot in a chain saw accident would say they were okay, they'd walk it off. That's only partly a joke. I knew one cowboy whose foot was crushed when a tractor rolled back on him. His boot filled with blood as he kept working for the rest of the day. Only that night, when, his foot swollen and purple, he couldn't get his boot off did he causally mention the accident.
Although a cowboy is a man’s man—laconic, reliable, hard-working—there’s no person in which the balancing act between male and female, manliness and femininity, can be more natural. If he’s gruff, handsome and physically fit on the outside, he’s compassionate at the core. Ranchers are midwives, nurturers, providers. The toughness, the weathered skin, calloused hands, squint in the eye and growl in the voice only mask the tenderness inside. Around women, cowhands are stand-offish but chivalrous. A cowboy tips his hat to a woman and calls her miss or ma’am, tolerates no disrespect to her character or person, whoever she may be. Urban males would deride them as white knights. If one of these called a woman a "bitch" or "'ho'" in the presence of a cowboy, he would get a quick and forceful explanation of the lay of the land and his position in it, and probably a broken jaw as well.
But the geographical vastness and the social isolation of the West make emotional involvement with the women a cowboy interacts with difficult. Caution colliding with passion gives a cowboy a wide-eyed but drawn and wary look. He wishes he had someone to care for him the way he cares for a lost dogie, but doesn't expect he ever will and doesn't look for someone who might. She has to find him.
At heart, cowboys are fragile. Women are, too. But for all the women who use frailness to avoid work or as a sexual ploy, there are just as many cowboys who try to hide their emotional vulnerability, even as they cling to an almost childlike dependency on the women in their lives. Urban males, sophisticated in the ways and wiles of man- and womankind, have developed a callousness that insulates them from the pain of failed relationships. Cowboys have no such internal armor and often misunderstand a woman's words and can be deeply hurt. They can grow bitter and prefer to be away from all people, working far out on the prairie where there is just God and his country and his creatures.
Because cowboys work mostly with animals not machines; because they live outside in landscapes of overwhelming beauty; because they are confined to a place and a routine rife with violent variables; because calves die in the arms that pulled others into life; because they go to the mountains as if on a pilgrimage, their strength is also a vulnerability, their toughness a kindness.
The moon rides high in the cloudless sky, And the stars are shining bright. The dark pines show on the hills below, The mountains are capped with white. My spurs they ring and the song I sing Is set to my horse's stride. We gallop along to an old-time song As out on the trail we ride. My horse is pulling the bridle reins, I'm hitting the trail tonight. You can hear the sound as he strikes the ground On the frozen trail below. His hoof beats hit and he fights the bit, He's slinging his head to and fro. We'll ride the trail till the stars turn pale And camp at the break of dawn. Nobody will know which way I go, They'll only know I've gone. ~ Bruce Kiskaddon
"It's beefsteak when I'm hungry, Corn whiskey when I'm dry, Pretty girls when I'm lonesome, Sweet heaven when I die." ~ Dick Duval
A story from the days of the America that used to be and that still lives in the hearts of her native children. Who punishes treason now? Is there even such a word, such a concept anymore? Is the very concept of a country, a nation, a motherland, obsolete? Should it be?
"Remember that behind officers and government, and people even, there is the Country
Herself, your Country, and that you belong to her as you belong to your
own mother."
I suppose that very few casual
readers of the "New York Herald" of August 13th observed, in an obscure
corner, among the "Deaths," the announcement,
"NOLAN. DIED, on board U.S. Corvette Levant, Lat. 2° 11' S., Long. 131° W., on the 11th of May: Philip Nolan."
I
happened to observe it, because I was stranded at the old Mission-House
in Mackinac, waiting for a Lake-Superior steamer which did not choose
to come, and I was devouring, to the very stubble, all the current
literature I could get hold of, even down to the deaths and marriages in
the "Herald." My memory for names and people is good, and the reader
will see, as he goes on, that I had reason enough to remember Philip
Nolan. There are hundreds of readers who would have paused at that
announcement, if the officer of the Levant who reported it had chosen to
make it thus:—"Died, May 11th, THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY."
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d, As home his footsteps he hath turn’d, From wandering on a foreign strand! ~ Sir Walter Scott
The same year, but two different worlds.
The photo on the left is a vacation snapshot of the Grand Canyon, taken
in 1941, the car an up-model Chevrolet, a good car that took a young
couple from San Diego to Arizona in style and comfort, while getting 17
miles per gallon, according to their trip notes.
They stayed in motor lodges, motels and then the national park's
luxurious accommodations. They rode to the bottom of the canyon on a
tourist mule train and it was all pretty much like Donald Duck and his
nephews' vacations. It was a fun, safe, comfortable world they lived
in, and which they expected to continue forever. Why should it not?
This photo to the right below was taken that same year, in the Philippines. Army Air Force pilots walk past obsolete Boeing
P-26A fighter planes. Within weeks of this photo being taken, most of
these men would be dead, killed in a desperate struggle with the
invading Japanese, against whom their old fighter planes were no match.
One of my great uncles was in the Army Air Force in the PI when the
Japanese attacked, and fought them in those early days. He died in that distant land.
From what I understand -- and I don't know much for sure -- he started
out there flying P-26s, then moved on to P-35s, then the P-40s. All I
have seen of his days then are a few old snapshots of old planes. He was not killed in combat but became a PoW after the surrender, an experience which he did not survive.
Besides the P26As, we had P-35As that the government had commandeered
from a Swedish order. When they arrived in the Philippines, they still
had the Swedish Air Force markings on them. They were highly maneuverable fighter planes, with a tight turning circle,
but they were under-powered and slow, with a poor rate of climb. They
didn't dive very well either and were under-gunned. Below is a photo of some of
these P-35As taxiing for take-off on a sunny day in the summer of
1941. Many of them would fall in air combat in the weeks after Dec. 8, but, surprisingly perhaps, more were disabled by lack of spare parts than were shot down by the enemy.
The plan was for both the P-26 and P-35 to be replaced by P-40s by the
spring of 1942. Some early model P-40Bs had arrived in the PI earlier
in 1941, and a number of the current-model P-40E had begun arriving in
November, the last shipment on Nov. 25. They were crated and had to be
hauled from the docks to the airfields, assembled and flight-tested, the
engines slow-timed, while the new pilots who arrived with them and who
had never even flown anything more sophisticated than an AT-6 advanced
trainer, read the operating manuals and tried to get some flight time in
them. To
the right below is a photo of a P-40B being assembled. Not a lot of
sophisticated equipment to do it. Just some crates and hand tools.
Fifty cal. ammunition for their guns came loose in cases. "Belting
parties" were held to load the bullets into machine gun belts so they
could be fired. I looked at the amount of .50 cal. ammunition that had
arrived in the Philippines by December 8, when the Japanese attacked,
and compared it to the number of .50 cal. guns in the P-40s that were on
hand at that date and calculated that if all of it had been belted --
which it hadn't -- it would give each gun three seconds of firing time.
When the Japanese attacked on Dec. 8, the P-40 pilots, contrary to old
myths, acquitted themselves very well on their first encounter, shooting
down and killing the pilots of eight Japanese Zeros while losing three
of their own planes, and
having only one pilot killed in the air (at least eight of our pilots
were killed on the ground trying to get airborne and 20 of their
airplanes destroyed). They continued to acquit themselves well in
subsequent days.
But their fate was sealed from the onset of the war, as no
reinforcements or resupplies were ever sent, and the Japanese came down
on them in overwhelming force. At the left is a photo of a shot-down
P-40. Pretty grim memento mori.
Still, they and our ground forces held out for four months on the
mainland of Luzon and another month on Corregidor. Heroes and legends
were born in those days. And long since have been forgotten.
We should not forget such times and such events. But, of course, we do.
We have our own lives and our own wars, and what happened in grandpa's
day seems increasingly irrelevant to our own times.
But is it?
Below is a photo the Japanese conquerors of the United States
Territory of the Philippine Islands took of a disabled P-35A they seized
when they overran one of our airfields. Note the American flag
dishonored on the ground as our enemies exult, proud in their possession
of a war prize, waving their own banner high.
Do we ever want such a thing to happen again? If we don't, we had
better remember that it has happened before, try to understand why it
happened, and do whatever we can to make sure that it never happens
again. Ever.
Often
these celebrity transsexual guys who are asserted to be actual women
still like stereotypical guy stuff even though they now wear a wig and
their aunt's old dress. Rightist website participants often mock them
for this, saying real women only like girly-girly stuff. Most of the
males saying this are, from what they've written that I have read, assorted varieties of nerds and dorks and don't seem to have much
experience with actual, real women. Plenty of women have interests
similar to men's, although they may have different reasons than men for doing so, and I don't think you can distinguish a real woman
from a tranny by the things she likes to do or is interested in.But
I am about as sure as I can be without actually knowing any transsexual
"women" that there is one certain way to distinguish them from real
women: the way they talk, how much they talk and what they talk
about.
I consider myself not much of a talker, but one time I
accidentally left my phone's record mode on for some time while el jefe
and moi were at home and I was astonished at how chatty I was. For
every word he said, I said 20 -- no, I take that back: for every word
he said, I said 100. No lie, kimo sabe. What did I talk about? I
don't even know, just random blah blah, what the weather was like, what a
neighbor said, where I got a recipe, should I buy this or that when I
next went shopping....
I mentioned this to him,
apologizing for being such a nuisance, but he said no need to
apologize. He enjoyed hearing me rattle on. It reminded him that he was
home and everything was all right. It was like listening to a canary
chirping and twittering. It was a kind of verbal sunshine. When I was away from home, the house seemed cold and empty to him without the sound of my voice giving life to it.
So, anyway, with these trannies, maybe they can take hormones or whatever they do to give themselves man boobs and shoehorn their feet into size 12 heels and slather on LA Girl cosmetics, but I bet they still talk like men, have the same speech patterns as they always had. No hormones or operations can change that.
I've gone to a few end-of-year get-togethers the last few days -- you couldn't really call them parties, everyone is so subdued. The events of this year have been so dismaying that no one is in a party mood. What's to celebrate?
I've hosted or helped host these events and my contribution is to focus on what our country used to be, showing old movies and old TV shows, playing old pop tunes, especially those sweet romantic songs that I am a sucker for. One of my all-time favorite movies is the 1948 Portrait of Jenny and I showed it with some trepidation at one of our gatherings, filled as it was with mostly Macho McStudly types, many combat vets who are cynical about everything, but they all watched it with intense interest. I even noticed a tear in the eye of one or two of these gentlemen. I really do think that a lot of guys are very romantic at heart, but they've learned to keep such feelings well hidden. One person, watching the scenes of New York City life at mid-20th century, remarked on how wonderful it must have been to have a life in that city in those days. He said he wished the present would just go away and heads nodded and some sighs were heard. If only there was some button to push, some magic word or phrase to say, to make the last 60 or so years to never have been.... And let me emphasize that all those present are millennials, not old-timers. All of us yearn for a past we never knew, one that even our parents knew scarcely, if at all. In Nabokov's words, we weep for the impossible past.
The music I play has a similar effect as I select mainly sentimental slow dances, romantic songs from an era when love and romance were paramount in popular culture. Even the clumsy, suddenly shy guys discover just how great it is to dance cheek-to-cheek with your girl. Then settle down together by the fireside and have a hot toddy as the wind sings around the eaves and the rain and sleet beat against the windows and snow flurries dance in the porch light. Life would be so good if only the present would just go away!
Based on the results of this test, it is highly likely that: You
prefer your romance and love to be traditional rather than daring or
out-of-the-ordinary, you would rather be pursued than do the pursuing
and, when it comes to physical love, your satisfaction comes more from
providing a wonderful time to your partner than simply seeking your own. This places you in the lover style of the Devoted Lover. The
Devoted Lover is a wonderful style, and is perhaps the best when it comes to developing a long-term, caring and rewarding
relationship. The Devoted Lover is a treasure to find, though it is
sometimes difficult to establish a relationship with one.
Your result for The Would You Have Been a Nazi Test
The Expatriate
Achtung! You are 38% brainwashworthy, 27% antitolerant, and 24% blindly patrioticCongratulations!
You are not susceptible to brainwashing, your values and cares extend
beyond the borders of your own country, and your blind patriotism does
not reach unhealthy levels. If you had been German in the 1930s, you would've left the country. One
possible bad scenario is that you just wouldn't have cared one way or
the other about Nazism. Maybe politics don't interest you enough. Did
you know that many of the smartest Germans departed prior to the
beginning of World War II because they knew something evil was brewing?
Brain Drain. Many of them were scientists. It is very possible you could
have been one of them. Conclusion: born and raised in Germany in the early 1930s, you would not have been a Nazi.
Your result for The Mythological Goddess Test
Minerva
You are 71% erudite, 63% sensual, 38% martial, and 21% saturnine.
Minervawas, just like her Greek counterpart Athena, the Goddess of Wisdom and Freedom as well as an all powerful Goddess of War, which made her a most formidable opponent indeed. Among
the many disciplines that fell under her control were: writing, the
sciences, architecture, embroidery, and just about anything else dealing
with artistic skills, wise counsel, and of course battle and warfare. Like Athena, owls were considered sacred to Minerva, representing wisdom. She was a very wise warrior, respected by the Roman legions. She was also the Goddess of Women's Rights and patroness of career women.
Above the marge of night a star still shines, And on the frosty hills the sombre pines Harbor an eerie wind that crooneth low Over the glimmering wastes of virgin snow. ~ Lucy Maud Montgomery
Abitter cold day, with a raw north wind and relentless rain and sleet mixed with snow. It began last night and, except for brief teasing interludes -- once even with a burst of brilliant sunshine -- it hasn't stopped. It didn't rise out of the thirties all day. The mountain tops are covered with snow and the ocean is a constant rumbling roar with occasional ominous thuds...I guess big sleeper waves crashing ashore.
The weather matches my mood, dark and gloomy and full of sad resignation. My heart trapped in muddy slush.
Oh, well. Not the first time. Could be the last. Who knows? It was just over a year ago my dear friend lost his battle and went on ahead. How fast a year passes! His grave is now covered with dead needles of cypress and pines and a few blown down twigs. I brush them away chatting with him about the weather, hoping he is warm and safe. Safe! Why not pretend he is still with me? Why not delude myself? Or is it delusion? And what does it matter?
Twice I decided to go outside and walk to break my mood and remind myself of the great, wide world out there that doesn't care about me and my questioning gloom. The first time, around midday, I put on a heavy, rain-resistant coat and a rain hat and sallied forth, but I didn't get very far before I concluded I really didn't want to go for a walk. Just as I was deciding to turn back I almost collided with a big black cat who was making his way along the same path I was, but coming towards me. His head was down against the weather and he didn't even notice me. I saw him first and stopped, but he kept coming until he was almost upon me. Then suddenly he became aware of me and halted short, staring in surprise. Clearly, he did not expect to see a human out in such weather.
We eyed each other for a bit, then I decided to backtrack and turn off the trail. I expected him to resume his journey, but he just kept watching me without moving. I thought about having a contest of wills with him, to see who would move first, but then decided I really didn't care and retraced my footsteps.
My coat and hat were dripping water and my boots were soaked when I got back, and I was chilled. I made some tea and put a dollop of cream in it to go along with the sugar.
The second time I tried for a walk it was just before dark and I hiked up a ridge on a trail through the forest. The trees broke the wind and provided some shelter from the rain and sleet. About halfway up the ridge, snow began falling more than rain, and it collected wetly on the cold ground. The trail grew slippery and I skidded a few times, almost falling. Then it was all snow, swirling down so thickly it was hard to see ahead. I was thinking to myself how dumb I was to be out in this weather as darkness was about to fall, but also how smart I was because my mind was wholly concentrated on the now and I had no room to dwell on my grief. It was forgotten in the struggle to make my way forward.
Just as these thoughts were half-forming in my mind, I encountered deer. As cold as it was, they had no warm, waterproof coats to put on. They had no buildings to retreat into. As with all wild creatures, they had to endure. What troubles did they have? They fed and mated and avoided predators, gave birth to young and spent their lives with their birth herd, which was really their family, three or four generations deep, living on the same land as their ancestors had for...how long? Thousands of years maybe. Who could tell?
I watched them for a while, as they watched me. Like the cat, they stood still and waited me out. After a while, as the sky grew gloomy with the setting of the invisible sun, I turned back on my footsteps and made my way home descending into a darkness that was somehow comforting.
It was all right. I would get over this. The storm would pass, as all storms do, and the sun would shine again and day after day would be warm, dry and pleasant. I would even see the deer again. Maybe even the cat.
I was browsing the comments to some on-line columnist and blundered into one of those squabbles between two disagreeable persons. The male complained that women "won’t give us skirts, dresses, nice hairstyles, nylons or pumps" and the female responded: "I’m not going to spend fifteen minutes of my day squeezing into a pair of panty hose, nor am I going to stand in front of a mirror primping for God knows how long. Most of all, I’m not going to torture myself in a pair of 'pumps.'” My reaction to that, aside from considering the commenters people I would cross the street to avoid saying hello to, is that the male complaint is reasonable although men love to grumble about women spending too much time getting ready to go out and notoriously don't notice when a women has her hair done or anything else to enhance her appearance.
But I don't care about that. I enjoy making myself look good. I like messing around with make-up and adjusting this and that, trying different shades and combinations, changing my hair style, etc. I'll try on this outfit with those shoes and then those other ones, then try on that outfit...endlessly. I can spend an afternoon doing that, even when I'm not going anywhere. It's kind of a hobby, I guess. When we go out, I see to my hair and make-up, wear something chic and appropriate, with heels and stockings and matching accessories. I have no interest in being a frump. About putting on pantyhose, I think the woman was exaggerating or is incredibly fat. I wear pantyhose in the winter or when it's chilly out because they are warm and it takes me maybe 30 seconds to put them on. It's not a big deal. Otherwise I wear thigh-highs. Depending on my outfit, I might wear knee-high socks, especially with Mary-Janes. If it's warm out and I wear a sundress or the like I will go bare-legged. Of course I wear socks with jeans and am bare-legged in shorts or cut-offs. I have all kinds of high-heel shoes, mules and sandals and pumps and.... I love wearing them. I love the way they make me look and how they give a swivel to my walk.
I've spent a lot of time in East Asia and it's my observation that the number of really good-looking women is about the same there as everywhere else, but a big difference, one often remarked on, is the much lower rate of obesity, so more seem attractive. But another thing I noticed that helps them look good is that they dress well, really paying attention to looking stylish. A lot of American women dress like slobs. To be fair, so do American men. If you are fat and slouch around (good posture is another point in favor of the Oriental woman) in an old sweatshirt and yoga pants one size too small for your fast-food-enhanced butt, well.... But looked at objectively, a lot of Oriental women have what my dad calls stump-puller legs -- thick calves and ankles. Combine that with a general lack of curves, hair you can't really do anything with, and small eyes, and Oriental women shouldn't be considered all that attractive. But if you combine height-weight proportionality, good use of make-up and attention to dressing to enhance your natural assets, standing up straight, you've got something. Add in paying attention to your demeanor (act feminine, enjoy being attractive, don't be pushily aggressive or overtly competitive, don't nag), and your voice (you don't have to screech or yowl or talk through your nose), and you end up with an attractive package that men will take a second look at.
And -- admit it -- isn't having men take a second look at you one of the pleasures of life? Doesn't it brighten your day, boost your self-esteem? It seems to me all those what I call "public women" who write and speak about things like the male gaze and all sex being rape have some serious emotional issues. Those things are so stupid. Sure, you can get unwanted male attention, and, yes, rape is real and something to be wary of, but those are part of life and you have to learn how to deal with them like all the other slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, to coin a phrase. If men aren't attracted to you, how are you ever going to get a boyfriend, and without a boyfriend how are you ever going to have a husband? And without sex how are you going to have children? A family? Isn't having your very own family what it's all about, what makes this world worth living in?
Maybe it's because in so much of my working life I have had to wear NWUs or combat uniforms and boots, my hair cut short and tied in a granny bun and in every way dressed to de-emphasize my femaleness, but I enjoy dressing to let the world know I am a woman. I enjoy enhancing my sex appeal when the occasion is appropriate. I wear tight skirts and form-fitting dresses slit up to here and underwire push-up bras that enhance my cleavage and four-inch heels that give a swing to my sway. I do my nails and take care of my hands and feet. I use make-up. I wear perfume. I wear a bikini when I go swimming. I wear Victoria's Secret lingerie to bed. Ain't I terrible?
This poem used to be broadcast over Armed Forces radio, in olden times called FEN (Far East Network) and now called by the seriously lame name AFN Eagle 810. Well, anyway, this was the most requested Christmas song on the station up to the 1990s, by which time conditions in Japan for SOFA personnel had changed so much that it didn't have much relevance anymore. When it was first written, probably in the 1950s but no one knows for sure, most dependent housing was off-base. The houses had no insulation and the only heating was supplied by kerosene-burning space heaters and electric blankets. So houses in winter were cold!
Anyway, here are the lyrics. They were sung to "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town," the instrumental version by Booker T and the MGs when I first heard it. In earlier years it was doubtless sung to some then-popular version of the song.I don't know who the singer was, probably some enlisted journalist serving in Japan ages ago.
‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, The cold would awaken the sleepiest mouse. The stockings were hung by the space heater with care In the hopes that St. Nick-san would soon be there. And I in my blanket, with the heat turned on high Had just settled down–oyasumi nasai. When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, Mom was checking the oil drums and as mad as a hatter. I threw open the window and peered through the plastic. Gomen nasai darling, don’t do anything drastic. I had forgotten to order some more of the stuff, And it looked as if Christmas would be kind of rough.
The moon on the breast of the gravel and snow Gave the luster of midday to the compound below. When what to my wondering eyes should appear But a chisai sleigh and eight tiny reindeer. A little ol’ honcho, so lively and quick. I could tell by his accent, he must be St. Nick. More rapid than jet forces he came And he whistled and shouted and called them by name: Now Dozo, now Daijobu, now Chotto and Matte, On Soba, on Sushi, on Ah So Desuka. (Because of the unions I suppose over here, He probably employs Japanese reindeer). As fast as lightening, he entered the door And opened his furoshiki and dumped on the floor Dozens of packages and gifts of all sizes, Just what the kids wanted plus extra surprises. I was so happy I wanted to squeeze ‘im Christmas would be merry, even though we were freezin’… Thank you, I said, You’re such an old dear, Domo arigato, as they say over here.
But how did you ever find this place? We worried that maybe you just went on base. His eyes, how they twinkled; “Now don’t ever tell, But I don’t go by rank or key personnel…” What did you bring me? I wanted to know. He shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of tofu. “Well, you private renters sure need a lot, But for you, it’s something special I got; It’s much too big to go under the tree, So look out in the yard and you will see, To keep peace in the family, you know what I mean, Your gift is a drumful of kerosene. And now I’d better be off, for I’m on TDY And it’s quite a trip back to the good ol’ ZI” He sprang from his sleigh and to his team gave a whistle And away they all flew like the thrust of a missile. But I heard him exclaim as they drove out of sight, “Christmas Omedeto and to all a good night!”
And here's a version for Marines. It was written by Lance Corporal James Schmidt.
Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone In a one bedroom house made of plaster and stone. I had come down the chimney, with presents to give And to see just who in this home did live.
As I looked all about, a strange sight I did see: No tinsel, no presents, not even a tree. No stocking by the fire, just boots filled with sand. On the wall hung pictures of a far distant land.
With medals and badges, awards of all kind A sobering thought soon came to my mind For this house was different, unlike any I’d seen. This was the home of a U.S. Marine.
I’d heard stories about them, I had to see more So I walked down the hall and pushed open the door And there he lay sleeping, silent, alone Curled up on the floor in his one-bedroom home.
He seemed so gentle, his face so serene Not how I pictured a U.S. Marine. Was this the hero, of whom I’d just read Curled up in his poncho, a floor for his bed?
His face was clean-shaven, his weathered face tan. I soon understood, this was more than a man For I realized the families that I saw that night Owed their lives to these men, who were willing to fight.
Soon around the nation, the children would play And grown-ups would celebrate on a bright Christmas day They all enjoyed freedom, each month and all year Because of Marines like this one lying here.
I couldn’t help wonder how many lay alone On a cold Christmas Eve, in a land far from home. Just the very thought brought a tear to my eye I dropped to my knees and I started to cry.
He must have awoken, for I heard a rough voice “Santa, don’t cry, this life is my choice. I fight for freedom, I don’t ask for more. My life is my God, my country, my Corps.”
With that he rolled over, drifted off into sleep. I couldn’t control it, I continued to weep. I watched him for hours, so silent and still. I noticed he shivered from the cold night’s chill.
So I took off my jacket, the one made of red, And covered this Marine from his toes to his head. Then I put on his T-shirt of scarlet and gold With an eagle, globe and anchor emblazoned so bold.
And although it barely fit me, I began to swell with pride And for one shining moment, I was Marine Corps deep inside. I didn’t want to leave him so quiet in the night, This guardian of honor so willing to fight.
But half asleep he rolled over, and in a voice clean and pure Said “Carry on, Santa, it’s Christmas Day, all is secure.” One look at my watch and I knew he was right. Merry Christmas my friend, Semper Fi and goodnight!
