Confirmation, Justification, and a Few Others

For the first time since November 7, I looked at the Google news aggregator. The world hasn't changed in the slightest. I haven't missed a thing.

Under local stories, I did find a "Mystery Diner" review of a supposedly authentic Korean restaurant in Elizabethton, Tennessee, which is a very nice half-hour drive from here. We think nothing of going to, or toward, Elizabethton for what is routinely considered Tennessee's best barbecue in a small, very out-of-the-way joint, and think of that ranking when it competes against every famous Memphis barbecue place. "Mystery Diner," who I think is any contributor, baffled me when I first saw a straight-up, irony-free review of a local, recently opened Steak and Shake, where the writer first defined the burgers and fries as if they'd been dropped in from another planet . . . and didn't bother with trying the shakes.

Elizabethton is also home of First Presbyterian Church of Elizabethton, TN, which is where Tere and I will go (not even annually) when we want to go to church. Certainly the most open and affirming and welcoming of all Presbyterian congregations I've ever seen anywhere—in East Tennessee. Their former pastor had a syndicated PRI radio show in which he delved into all kinds of theological issues, such as I might come across.

How welcoming was this church? Under the prior pastor, this nice Jewish boy from New York City almost did the aisle walk to take Communion. I was this close, but didn't pull that lever. My feet were moving, almost.

How did the pastor do it? Aside from the general vibe of the church, as he was inviting people to the table, he said, "If you think Jesus would have wanted you to take communion, feel free to come up."

Good pastor. Lots of show. Very consciously a performer, and I usually don't tolerate too much of that. But I've loved some pastors in my day, and none of them presented the offer to receive the lord's supper quite like that, professionally or personally. I don't think PCUSA would mind, but I don't know.

And Speaking of My Online Gig, from Which I Am on Hiatus

Thankfully, this ain't me, but there are some interesting parallels:

We get forty little thumbnails, that way we don’t have to watch the video we can instantly see “oh, well there’s some genitals” or “there’s a man’s head but he’s not connected to it” . . . something like that. And we can instantly apply policy. It’s extremely streamlined.

Substance Matters

Another episode in the-blog-as-scholarly-dick-joke:

Herodotus reported a similar story. Astrabacus, a dead but reanimated hero, had sexual intercourse with a maiden. He even fathered a son called Demaratus. His paramour described Astrabacus as being a phasma or “apparition” in the form of her dead husband, Ariston. Despite being an apparition, Astrabacus was apparently not ethereal. In order for him to have sired a child, at least one part of him must have been substantial.

Right on Time

Tere came home today, finally. And within the hour, both cats were at the door.

Now, Elvis . . . he would have stayed away for three days, come home immediately after we opened a can of tuna, and proceeded to lecture us for 10 minutes on the indignities he faced while we were gone.

End in Sight, It Must Be Right

Two weeks in, and my wife appears to be headed home later today (Monday). Fingers are crossed. I'm spending the night here, writing an index in a dark hospital room in the middle of the night. It's about 10 degrees outside. Tere is resting quite comfortably, and I've managed to find 9 hours of music-type sounds that mimic our backyard, once you filter out the barking dogs, whom I hope to spring on Tuesday from a week of boarding, which followed a week of bizarre nonroutines for them. Poor puppies. But Tere's got something to listen to overnight instead of the occasional person hollin' oudda they head.

Our outdoor cats (in my mind, they're outdoor) seem to have flown the coop. While I feed them, I'm sure they know that Tere is their main advocate, and they probably sense she's not there. And once the dogs were boarded, the cats didn't have much entertainment or other warm bodies to rub up against. But I kept putting food out, and they'd show up occasionally. Not so much the last few days.

World's Handsomest Mutt Zooey doesn't pay much attention to the felines, but the hound and the gray cat, Suzzy, are buddies. Suzzy and Maggie, our little tortoise-shell beast, are both hunters and pretty clever, and I have no concern that they could survive outdoors. Maybe someone else has taken them in and is letting them pee on their valued rugs.

Once Tere and the dogs are repatriated to the Commonwealth, with my luck the cats'll show back up.

I remember when we left Florida 19 years ago, we had a crazy indoor/outdoor cat that we hoped wouldn't show back up when moving day came. She'd disappear for a week or two at a time, so long absences weren't uncommon, but by the time I finally pulled up stakes, four weeks had passed since I last saw her. Probably nabbed by a hawk or decided to seek higher ground on the mainland. I remember leaving the house for the last time, thinking, Georgia, please don't show up. Because if she did, I'd have been compelled to take her with me. I am not going to knowingly leave a pet behind, even a cat that could survive perfectly well on the North Florida coast surrounded by seafood, barring outdoor dangers. In 33 years, we've only ever lost one cat to a car, and it was a great cat. Poor Hobbes. And poor Otis, another great animal and Elvis's mentor, probably succumbed to the circle of life near the marsh, or he started walking back to Atlanta, when we moved to Fernandina.

We had Elvis for 19 years, and after him, I'm pretty ambivalent about cats. If one's around, that's fine, but it better be doing its business out of doors. Every. Goddamn. Time.

Riding His Wife's Rather Disgusting Coattails

My news boycott continues, but I was compelled to visit the tubez to check on the first name of the junior US senator from that other state that sits about a mile from here and that continues to house my dear wife in intensive care.

Marsha Blackburn.

Read through some of her Wikipedia page. God, what a brainless hack. But there is this:

Her husband is the founder of the International Bow Tie Society (IBTS). 

Nice Indexing Juxtaposition

Just the way it turned out. I had nothing to do with it.

trolls, 154–55, 160, 161–62, 168, 177

Trump, Donald, 145, 147n9, 149n13, 167

truth

    communication in service of, 160

    regime of, 39

Today's Index Entry Winner: Everybody in the Pool

But the day is still very young:

Dipolog-Iligan-Ozamis-Pagadian-Ipil-Marawi Committee on Mining Issues, 112 

We All Look Alike, Too

A light moment amid a bit of a crisis. My dear wife is in the ICU with double pneumonia and sepsis. A young woman comes in today to take her breakfast and lunch orders for the next day. She looks at the three of us and says, "Where are you from?"

Our very good friend sitting with us is from Greenville, TN. Certainly in summer 1954, when he was born, it was pretty much country, and our friend can tell you tales for hours about it and makes a living at doing exactly that. My wife, three months older, is from Montgomery, AL, and Atlanta, GA. You don't get more southern than these two. The Virginia/Tennessee state line is the farthest north my wife has ever lived.

But hospital girl heard my voice, and that was all it took.

"Well, I've lived in the South for more than 40 years, but I grew up in New York and that'll never go away."

Her response: "I met people from Maryland once. They were mean."

Yeah, Maryland. Boy, what Yankees they are—that slave state during the War of Northern Aggression. That far-off land that happens to share a border with Virginia. For all I know, though, except for the part of Bristol over the state line (the hospital is in Tennessee, god help us), the young woman may never have ventured any deeper into the Commonwealth.

Back when mi esposa and I were dating, we were visiting my homeplace: the Mississippi of the Northeast. My father was a car dealer, and one time we needed to board a flight to return to Atlanta but my father was pressed for time to get us to the airport. Since I grew up on Staten Island, we'd fly out of Newark, NJ. My father corraled one of the young porters or mechanics to give us a ride--about 15 minutes. The young man averred that it was his first time off Staten Island. At the time, and still, I find that hard to believe, but after living in this part of the world for the last 19 years, it's far more plausible than it used to be.

Today's Peek into Gaming, and a Family Update

Along with hunting, opera, beekeeping, marathon running, and a thousand other diversions, gaming has absolutely no place in my life. Thus I am amused in the course of my online editorial gig to come across statements such as:

Unlocks Dead Ops Arcade and Presidential Zombie Mode (where you can play as Nixon, Kennedy, Castro, or McNamara)

On another note, the czarina is presently hospitalized and in the hands of the diagnostic geniuses at Bristol Regional Medical Center. Let's all hope for the best.

Coming Up on 200 Years, and Folks Still Talk This Way Here

And write it, which is, well, horrifying.

Young woman's journal in Grayson County, VA, 1843, east of here:

One Sunday morning, Betsy stayed home from church meeting. “Jan 29 1843. This day James went to meeting. I could have went if I had wished it—"

I hear this every day, sweetheart. Hon, you have a blessed day, y'hear?

I wonder what the Staten Island equivalent of a "Hi, hon" restaurant is. "Hey, da fuck you want? You gotta problem?"

One of the iconic venues of my yute.

One Method of Writing a Descriptive Book Title

“The Southern Harmony, and musical companion : containing a choice collection of tunes, hymns, psalms, odes, and anthems : selected from the most eminent authors in the United States : together with nearly one hundred new tunes, which have never before been published ; suited to most of the metres contained in Watts’s hymns and psalms, Mercer’s cluster, Dossey’s choice, Dover selection, Methodist hymn book, and Baptist harmony ; and well adapted to Christian churches of every denomination, singing schools, and private societies : also, an easy introduction to the grounds of music, the rudiments of music, and plain rules for beginners by William Walker.”

Long-Held Beliefs Disspelled Here!

Well, second- or thirdhand . . .

"Musicologist Eileen Southern has disproved the view that spirituals were born in the fields of southern plantations. Instead, she argues, they originated in the worship of independent black congregations in the Philadelphia area. The crucial source is an early hymnbook compiled by Richard Allen, a former slave who became the first bishop of the African Methodist Episcopal Church. Printed in 1801 in Philadelphia, Allen’s A Collection of Spiritual Songs and Hymns, Selected from Various Authors took its title from a phrase in Psalm 150, 'hymns and spiritual songs,' perhaps following on the standard collection by that name by the eighteenth-century English hymnist Isaac Watts. It was the first collection of sacred song that was highly regarded by black Christians and the first to include the 'wandering choruses'—short refrains attached randomly to standard hymn stanzas—that were characteristic of black song. Critically, Southern has traced texts in the landmark collection Slave Songs of the United States (1867) back to Allen’s hymnbook."

American Education and Publishing: Some Things Never Change

“It is lamentable that many of our children,” he wrote, “leave school knowing but a little more about the grammar of their language than a horse does about handling a musket.”

And later from the same volume:

"One editor warned would-be poets that there was 'postage to pay, paper to waste, and patience to weary' with the piles of submissions he received" (emphasis added).

And We Go on to the Next Round Robin

Hope 2019 has been OK so far. 8,752 hours to go, one at a time.

The following image is cribbed from the FB page of a local author whose short reminiscences of her horrific but probably not unusual childhood I am now rewriting. I am putting this work in place of three other jobs I'd rather not be doing just at this moment. 

In all honesty, I'm just killing time until I return to some self-prescribed catch-up sleep. The new year starts . . . mañana.