By lex, on September 29th, 2006
The fish and chips at Shakespeare are world class. But if you’re on a diet, or at least simulating being on a diet, the spicy chicken strips are a suitable replacement, combined with 2 pints of Fuller’s ESB. To wash them down, like.
There is a crowd of elderly gentlemen who assemble there on Friday afternoons, for to tip it the quaff. Members of the Greatest Generation, I surmise, by a lingering military bearing and the kind of easy camaraderie that is so often forged in the crucible of great and shared conflict, and so difficult to acquire elsewhere. Seeing them reminds me of the country we used to be, while also holding out hope for the future – If they’re pissed at what we’ve done with their legacy, you can’t tell it from their faces. They’re old but still healthy, and they’re having a lot of fun. Sometimes I envy them a bit. They finished the race. They kept the faith.
Michelle Malkin drives certain people crazy. She has Become the Story over the last few days, first from Dean Esmay * on what I take to be the right, and then from a UNC law professor * who really ought to spend his time more fruitfully. I’m not a fan myself – she’s rather over the top at times, and her outrage is a trifle too selectively partisan for my tastes. All of this I could take if the art itself supported it – picture Hitchens or Steyn, and view the Platonic Form – but her writing reminds me of James Webb’s, or Oliver North’s – they boxed as midshipmen at the Naval Academy back in the day, and write as though they were boxing still. It isn’t that the words they write are inelegantly assembled, it’s just that elegance forms no part at all of the aesthetic. But coming back to Malkin again, I really cannot see what it is that makes other people hate her so, when there are so many other people who manifest these sins, such as they are, to such a greater degree.
There is an unbecoming element of racism and sexism inside of all that, I fear. In striking at Malkin, her critics all too often wound themselves.
I don’t care even a little bit about the former president and his reminiscently wagging finger. Legacy polishing: All of that is so pre-9/11. So trivial.
In case you were curious how I felt about that.
The best pizza in San Diego is to be found at Bronx Pizza, in Hillcrest. No heterodoxy of opinion will be tolerated. Dissent will be crushed. Resistance is futile.
You don’t go there for the ambiance. You don’t go there for the service. You go there for the pizza. It’s art.
Hey: People want to know these things.
I know I offered you the possibility at least of a sea story. I’m sorry to disappoint. The well has run dry for the nonce. Oh, I suppose I could tell you about the time that a certain Tomcat pilot of my acquaintance, a man rather regrettably y-clept “Slut,” found himself on Boat Officer duty while the ship I had the honor to serve aboard swung at the chain in the harbor off Sunni Karachi, Pakistan. A choppy cross-sea was up, and the brown trout swam all about, modern theories of sanitation being held suspiciously at arm’s length in those parts, in those times. Never have I seen a man so thoroughly ill, as the bows and counter strove fitfully for vertical dominance, tap-tap-tap. He lay across the thwarts, covered in a blanket, insensate, very nearly dead, and almost entirely careless of his ultimate fate. The sight of him would have made you laugh, had you, like most fighter pilots, checked your empathy at the door.
He got better.
“Gilead,” by Marilynne Robinson is a Pulitzer Prize winning novel, and an excellent read, in spite of all that. I bought it last year, when I was in Monterey and feeling all poetic, like. The environment there being suitable to poetry, oceans and mist, etc.
Well, no, it’s not Ireland, but still.
Very little time have I had for poetry, or even reading, lately. I’ve got to pick a thesis topic soon, and a pair of advisors, and that’s only the beginning of it. It’d be OK, if I could only throw a dart at the board and grind something out, but that’s not my style, I’m very much afraid.
This is going to hurt.
Speaking of hurt, I got my bicycle back from the store yesterday, and the paying for it was rather a blow to the solar plexus. Doesn’t matter that Trek gives you a wonderful discount for battle damage, we’re not talking chips and salsa. It does look lovely though. Can’t wait to click in, and give her a spin.
In that vein, my very fondest thanks to you four, Anonymous Strangers, who saw fit to drop a non-trivial sum into the tip jar, quite of a sudden a week or so ago. That helped to ease the sting a bit.
So it’s off to join the Hobbit, I am. An office party, as it were. Her co-workers.
I must fortify myself.
Have a great weekend!
* 07-16-2018 Links Gone; no replacements found – Ed.