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When I was in the fifth grade, a neighbor from a nice family, and a close friend of my older brother, was arrested. I’m not sure how, and I think the why was purely out of boredom – unfortunately, unassuaged by codeine and alcohol – but, long story short: he burned down a house that was being constructed. I was told that he stood at the scene of the crime until police arrived, and then decided it was time to run. He was caught. In response to a local reporter asking why he ran, he was quoted thusly: “I hate cops.”
This was no squalid, inner cityhood; it was practically the opposite of that. This young man, who, last I heard, has struggled immensely to get his life on track since that fateful (farcical) evening, just didn’t like that group of people who tended to kill his buzz. It turns out they’d have had reason to be concerned about the destruction a misguided young man could cause. (Who’d have thought they aren’t just there for no reason?)
I hope there are some conservatives thinking about doing some campaigning in the neighborhoods that have more reason to appreciate the men and women who guard them while they sleep. I also hope his media team know of this video:
Any thoughts? (This was more of a whipped up post since I wasn’t sure if anybody had seen the first video.)
I’ll start by saying that my intention here is not to get anybody on the site to become a regular viewer of a raunchy SciFi cartoon, but I recommend reading the post below – and if you have time, watch the clips I carefully picked (in total, they shouldn’t take up more than 8 minutes). Rick and Morty is a show about God’s dislike for the blindly religious; meaning, of course, bureaucrats.
If the Right has a demographic to play “get out and vote!” with, it’s young, unmarried, mostly white men (but definitely not all), aged 18 to 40. Perhaps it’s an issue that 22 years could span a single political demographic, but mine is an iPad generation; it is what it is. Anyway, those are our votes to lose. Of the group I’ve described, the easiest way to identify them is to point out that the majority of them play video games; they probably discovered internet porn before even having a girlfriend; and their choices of popular entertainment are likely disconcerting to the rest of polite society. I’d guess most of these have seen a fair share, if not all, of the series South Park, Game of Thrones, The Wire, Archer, Workaholics, Family Guy, Bob’s Burgers, and Rick and Morty. Each has some merit, most are liked for the wrong reasons. Bob’s Burgers might be the best, but Rick and Morty is the most important. It’s a show about a genius and his grandson. The title is a play on “Doc” and “Marty” from Back to the Future.
Rick is the smartest man in the universe. He is practically all-knowing and all-powerful, perhaps lacking only in clairvoyance. He’s considered a terrorist by the Intergalactic Federation (a government made up of mildly intelligent mosquitos), who, according to the often duplicitous Rick, hope to take over the Universe. The burden of his obsessive mind fuels raging alcoholism and often leads him to the conclusion that nothing matters. His partner is his grandson, Morty. The former is constantly dragging Morty into life-threatening adventures, and while Rick is often irritated with his grandson’s foibles, it becomes clear to the viewers that Morty is a genuine necessity. I’ll add two clips below to get us started: The first is the opening scene of the series, which fittingly encapsulates the show’s arc, particularly Morty’s development of confidence in order to hone in his grandfather’s seasonal insanity.
Note the jokey Christian overtones in the clip above. I doubt the creators are religious, but they aren’t dummies. I assume, if nothing else, they know secular stories don’t cut it. This second clip (from much later in the series) will give you a taste of the terrors that Morty is exposed to by spending time with his grandpa:
The thing about Morty is that his brushes with a seemingly cold and uncaring universe never completely diminish his decency, only his naiveté. Though the youngest member of the Smith family, a stultified nuclear unit, he becomes its leader. His father is the weak, often pathetic, Jerry – the greatest object of Rick’s ire; Morty’s mother is an alcoholic herself. She’s clearly intelligent, but embittered by her loss of options that came after marrying Jerry and carrying her eldest child instead of following her father’s seeming-tendency to put inconveniences out of the head and move on; then there’s Summer, Jerry and Beth’s firstborn. Her arc began later in the series. Initially, she was a typical self-obsessed teenage girl, but as she began to be included in Rick’s adventures, she’s developed into a character of equal importance. (It was Summer who was first to be told about one of Morty’s most disturbing revelations.)
The show really gets going in the last episode of the final season, wherein Rick is framed for murdering other Rick’s from other dimensions. This crime is “naturally” under the jurisdiction of The Council of Ricks, another government formed by the Ricks who lack our Rick’s independence. It becomes clear to us that they are no less of a problem to our world than is the first government we encountered.
Our culprit surprises us though… it’s the Anti-Morty. (By the way, in this episode, our Morty is deemed the “One True Morty” by his fellow sidekick captives.)
Alright, now that we’ve got the gist, I can bring us to the show’s most frighteningly eerie episode. The show’s third season opens up with Rick escaping from the Intergalactic Federation, but on his way out, he discovers that the Council (of Ricks) have kidnapped the real-Rick’s Morty and Summer. Rick’s wrath leads him to destroy both the Citadel of Ricks and the Bug Government. To what extent the latter survives, we aren’t exactly sure – and I haven’t seen the latest season of the show, but I believe the bugs make a return – but the Citadel, being made up of surviving geniuses and their submissive sidekicks, was bound to return. We discover their fate later in Season 3.
The episode continues to show dissatisfied Rick’s, working menial jobs despite their equal capabilities to their superiors, and all of the Rick-less Mortys, living in squalor and turning to crime. In the center is a an honest Rick-cop, who hopes to make a difference, and a highly competent Morty in a highly unlikely Presidential run. At the debate, candidate-Morty makes a convincing case for the fact that the Ricks and Mortys who dislike the system outnumber the few who do. (The entire campaign and speech is cleverly done, it allows the show’s bipartisan audience to see the candidate of their admiration in this 2017 episode… before ripping the rug from under our feet.) After candidate-Morty wins the debate, his just-fired Campaign Manager discovers some unsettling truth. Then he sets out to assassinate the potential frontrunner.
It’s no mere sitcom. It is situational, and it’s funny, but this show takes us way out of the house. The irrationality of love and family is pointed out, but redeemed; its multiverse is used to suck in the nerds, but mostly done to expose us to the nearly unlimited, yet daunting, opportunities that come from freedom; and the reality, and complicated nature, of Good and Evil are laid bare. For any of you who know smart young men that are finding a hard time living up to their potential, I recommend asking if they know Rick and Morty. You may find that this minor knowledge of something that interests them will foster some confidence in you from them. And I’ve found that guys like that really could use some adults to talk to.
I’ll hope to see you guys in the comments. But until then, as they say in Canada… “Peace Oot!”
“Your representative owes you, not his industry only, but his judgment; and he betrays, instead of serving you, if he sacrifices it to your opinion.” — Edmund Burke
I knew a man, one of many pleasant anachronisms in my life that I did nothing to deserve. His friends called him “Bill.” We, his family, called him ” Papa.” He was born exactly 88 years ago, but I only first met him 59 years later. He was my mother’s father, the leader of an 11-member clan, and eventually a grandfather of 18. Things haven’t been the same since we lost him two years ago; such a man is not easily replaced. I might not go so far as to call him “great” – there will not likely be any institutions named after him, no statues either (thank goodness!) – but a good man is hard to find, and William Joseph Taylor was an especially good man.
Calling him an undertaker is fitting. Though he didn’t spend a lot of time preparing bodies for services, but he reopened the business his grandfather, John Irving Taylor, and Oscar Modeen founded in 1909. Papa’s undertaking was not limited to the funeral business. He and his wife of 66 years settled in Tequesta, FL, after leaving West Hartford, CT, in 1968. There, at 36 years of age, he worked tirelessly for his new community – then still aptly considered “The Village of Tequesta.” Involvement with the Jupiter Medical Center, Jupiter Pavilion (a hospice center) the Palm Beach County United Way, the Jupiter Tequesta Athletic Association, St. Jude Catholic Church, and the Florida Association for Retarded Persons were among his extra-curricular activities. He opened the first movie theatre in the area (it was, unsuccessful in part because his eldest decided to give candy to her friends). One time I asked him if he had ever seen a movie called The Last Picture Show. He gave me a knowing grin, and replied with a simple, “Yeah.” He knew I thought he was a lion. I really do still.
He served as a Councilman in Tequesta and a term as a member of the Florida House of Representatives. In 1981, after an unsuccessful re-election campaign, Papa continued his public service privately by founding T & M Ranch, a community for the developmentally disabled adults in the North Palm Beach area. (T & M was always the achievement that gave him the most pride.)
Papa holding his youngest of his nine children in the background. That’s Perry Como in front. This was likely for an ARC charity event – to my knowledge the two were not friends.
I don’t think it’s unfair for me to say that he and I had a special relationship. Unlike most grandchildren, I didn’t give much chase. As I approached adulthood, I sought him out at every opportunity. I squeezed him for what he had to offer, and fortunately he had a lot up his sleeve. Divorces were becoming commonplace, even in our tight-knit family, so an expert in the business of family caught my attention. I suppose like most strong relationships, this was due to shared anxieties at least as much as it was from shared interests: he liked golf, I preferred sports that allowed me to hit things hard; I’m not sure he knew many of the bands, or filmmakers, or writers I had come to admire. I was never a reader as a boy, and I’m not sure he ever had much time for books. Even so, there were many things we both loved. A large family tends to have this effect.
One evening, maybe eight years ago, I did what I tended to in those days, I ruined a family dinner by disagreeing vehemently about something I believe matters. (I can’t even recall what it was today, but I doubt I’ve changed my mind.) Afterward, he asked me to join him in his office, and then he handed me one of those books that can be purchased at Brooks Brothers, this one containing famous quotations. He said that he has had it for years, and has found a lot of these words very useful in his own life. Without breaking eye contact, he recited the words of Burke.
He liked it when people stood up; he found in his years that many never do. It was not uncommon for him to do so and find himself standing alone, sometimes in altercations that couldn’t help but get ugly. I remember he liked the story about how his best friend, a doctor, and he met while on the Board of Jupiter Medical Center. I can’t recall what Doctor Grogan said, but Papa who already had quite a bit of experience in these matters, interjected with, “That’s illegal…. and unethical.” Not really something anybody likes to hear, usually being told one is wrong is enough to set them off, but the former understood his error and the two remained partners until Doc’s last day.
Much of what made him the man he became was born of tragedy. Papa’s father took his own life when he was just eight years old. They moved around a lot after this, and the stories I have of this time in his life are few. I do know he was made chaperone of his younger sister when they traveled cross-country. I believe he was 10 the first time and I suspect he had to do things like this more than once. They stayed with their relatives in rougher neighborhoods than the lace-curtain one he had been cradled in. After his mother remarried a Coast Guard officer, they continued to move about, but at least there was some stability. They were relocated to Coral Gables, FL, in the late ’40s, and there he met my grandmother. He knew he liked a FitzGibbon girl, but he had to date three of them in order to pick. That was always such a peculiar story to me when I was growing up. I’ve seen the pictures, and, to be sure, and they were all lovely, but it wasn’t until I learned more about my great-grandfather – another community man who worked his way up from very little and contributed what he could out of a sense of duty as much as a charitableness. They called him “Papa,” and only recently did I hear that my Papa chose his grandpa name when he heard my eldest cousin was on the way. I think he always knew what he wanted to be.
When he died he was, as they say in biz, “surrounded by loved ones.” This was no exaggeration. The only of his grandchildren who couldn’t be by side are a Merchant Marine, a Navy man, and a spectacular classical pianist caught right in the middle of his finals week. That they knew to honor their commitments would have made him proud (he wasn’t really conscious by the time any of us got there). After his soul departed, my family was approached by a plethora of younger men, mostly in or around my parents’ generation. Each told us some variation of, “Your father/grandfather was kind of like a second father to me.” As for his actual descendants, we had our tears at the hospice center he helped start, but the week was generally a joyous occasion. The laughter stood out, and that he got us all together again was his grand finale. I have little doubt that he was pleased by that.
Though retired, he isn’t one to stop checking in.
[I just wanted to add a couple more pictures that my wonderful aunt sent me last night.]
I joined Ricochet for a simple reason; they were putting out a product worth supporting. Rob Long’s pitches about the content behind the paywall left me unconvinced – sorry, Rob. I can’t recall how long it was before I begin lurking around the right Feed, but I know where I first started participating: Ricochet’s “What Are Listening To” group. My little experience with conservatives growing up left me with the impression that these people don’t care much about art – or art people are interested in, anyway. I still don’t think I’m wrong about the right as a whole, but I guess Ricochet isn’t all that normal.
Here is some of the great pop music that I’d likely have never encountered had I not joined this site. (I’m intentionally excluding the excellent tunes I’ve heard since Clifford Brown decided to gift us with this Group Writing theme.)
I decided against embarrassing the ones who showed me these gems. You know who you are. How about the rest of Ricochet? Has anything been added to the soundtrack of your life from the members you’ve met? Anything you think the rest of us might not have heard?
Im’a school kids and tease ’em and please ’em For the treason, that’s the reason Im’a squeeze ’em -Del Tha Funkee Homosapien, No Need For Alarm
There’s a saying you may have encountered if you know any liberals inclined to sympathize with the ugliness that followed George Floyd’s murder. They say, “If people loved Black people as much as love Black culture, there wouldn’t be a problem.” Most of the people who make this point are Black themselves, or they are young. My experience with the young ones has shown me a couple of things: most of them are talking about Rap music, and that their attraction to it is borne of the same feeling that motivated Norman Mailer’s “white negroes” of the late 1950s. Boredom.
The issue with their line is simple. Black culture in the narrow sense they understand it is not as loved as they believe. My view of Hip Hop is nearly the same as the one I have on Country: Most of it is unappealing, offensive even; but when it’s good, it has all of the value that any other popular art form has to offer. I suspect few on this site truly share this in common with me; maybe not the Country bit, but with the Rap part.
You may be unfamiliar with this world – and that is a very fortunate thing for you – but I’d say it’s about time conservatives reconsider ignoring it. If I were to attribute any sin to Right, this would be it. Aren’t we supposed to go where the sinners go?
Lest there be any misunderstanding, I’d like to make one thing clear: I didn’t grow up in the Upper East Side or Beverly Hills, but I am about as privileged as they get. My preference is to flip the script and call it Gratitude, but I did grow up casual. That was a good thing, but I tend to think this means I owe something. (I’m not speaking for anybody else here, most of you probably owe less than I do.)
I understand that hearing misogynistic vulgarities, or songs which speak so casually about violence just isn’t everybody’s cup-o-tea. It isn’t mine either. I was raised to believe that the N-word is ugly, and shouldn’t be uttered, but I can appreciate that it means something different to people who have more to be angry about than I.
But I’d assume that most of the talk we have about the tragedies that grew out of The Great Society is had from a distance. Mightn’t we feel a bit more sour rage if it were our own mothers or the mothers of our children, that got in bed with Uncle Sam? Outkast’s “Mrs. Jackson,” The Pharcyde’s “Passin’ Me By,” or the aforementioned Del’s “Boo Booheads” are expressions of the bitterness which comes from these betrayals. This isn’t a one-way street, of course. Queen Latifah’s “U.N.I.T.Y.,” TLC’s “No Scrubs,” “Lauren Hill’s “Ex-Factor” were responses that hold their own as “classics.”
If we were raised in fatherless households where bars on the windows proved necessary, isn’t it reasonable that a young man might learn that hardness is essential to walking through this world fearlessly? Whenever boys take up football, we rightly acknowledge the importance that these future men to learn to channel anger; we further hope they’ll learn to become courageous and stand up for what’s right. Andre Benjamin’s, “Put my Glock away, I got a stronger weapon that never runs outta ammunition, so I’m ready for war, okay,” is one of the better iterations of this very common message in Hip Hop. Unfortunately, it was only people on the Left that took notice that a good message was prepared in a way that appeals to the ones who need to hear it. If you asked me how to get your kids to eat their vegetables, I’d recommend you figure out how to make them taste good.
Most kids are stupid, most are misguided, but none of them should be left to the vultures. Ask Chuck D:
Beware of the Hand when it’s comin’ from the Left I ain’t trippin’ Jus’ watch ya step. Can’t Truss It!
Alas, this will be my last photo tour through Cuba. I suppose it’s fitting that I’d forgot to post this last chapter sooner considering that the entire series would have been published a few years ago…. had I not forgotten then. Better late than never I suppose! Below are the pictures of a day spent in the Escambray Mountains, near Trinidad. The region is probably most known for being the site of a long rebellion against Castro’s regime. Perhaps it will surprise you to hear that nobody mentioned that while I was there…
This is Lenia! I really loved Lenia!
The property below is the home of a small family. It was located on the hiking trail, and an arrangement between the family and the tour guides allowed us to walk through. We were even allowed inside their home.
I’d assume that the little structure next to the man above is an outhouse. The couple interior shots I got of their home are below.
Our guide for the day was the lovely Lenia. On meeting her, she told us that she was named after Vladimir Lenin by her father, a committed Communist. Without any bitterness, she explained that she was not. My favorite story she told was about the day before guiding her first group of Americans. When she was first given the news, she was initially unmoved.
“Oh, okay. Where from?”
She expected the answer to be Ecuador. Or Mexico. Perhaps Chile.
“America. Like, America-America.”
This changed things.
Lenia went on to explain that her evening involved what felt like a few hours in front of the mirror, trying out different poses and phrases, hoping to catch the one that would make the right impression on the aliens she was about to meet. Should she cross her arms and strike a cool pose? Or perhaps hands clasped behind the back. Then there was the question of what to say. Should she lead with a casual “Hey!”? Or “Yo”? Perhaps formal would be the way to go.
There was plenty I had seen and heard during my trip to illustrate that Cubans, as a whole, had a pretty good opinion of Americans, but before hearing Lenia’s story, I hadn’t realized how much respect some of them had for us. The young people, for instance, clearly liked the idea of better consumer goods, and especially the idea of a constant, lavish party, but I got the sense that older Cubans appreciated the fact that we can make up our minds about our experiences. Cubans fortunate enough to have jobs take a lot of pride in them, so impressing an American – a person who can easily take their business elsewhere, one who is not so easily impressed – that’s special!
Unfortunately, the stories weren’t all happy. Lenia’s brother had recently escaped the country, leaving his sister and brother-in-law as the sole caretakers for her ailing mother. Apparently the brother did so by saving a large sum to travel to Canada, and then simply stayed. Cubans have to pay the government tremendous fees in order to even be allowed to travel outside the country. Canada, the country her brother chose, may have cost a few thousand on top of the travel expenses.
Further, after the hike, Lenia came with us to the house of our guide for the trip. She explained to me that this is not very common. The reason is because the people who she relies on for work (like Carlos) are generally well-connected and much wealthier; they prefer to avoid letting people below the chain see that. Carlos’s home was on a spectacular piece of land, but the home and its interior would appear to most of us as plain-old poverty. Nonetheless, Lenia’s eyes were wide.
“This is money!” She whispered in my ear.
Below is some construction that our main guide, Carlos, was working on at his property. He told me that he had originally hired workers from Havana, but they were terribly slow. He had since taken this project, as well as digging up a pool, on himself. (Keep in mind, this is the guy who Lenia said is wealthy – even being so ain’t worth much it seems.
This is the view from our main guide’s house.
The Road to Havana:
I highly recommend bringing an abundance of two things with you if you visit Cuba before the regime goes. The first is soap – it’s what virtually every beggar asks for. The other is candy! Cuban children are very cute, and Cubans are a lot less suspicious of adults they don’t know giving candy to their kids.
Shrek and Princess Fiona
Thanks for checking this out. I’ll link the previous chapters in the comments.
The best joke-tellers are those who have the patience to wait for conversation to come around to the point where the jokes in their repertoire have application. — Joseph Epstein, Familiar Territory
At first glance, one might be inclined to deem our current epoch humorless. Perhaps it is a feature of humorless humans that they make up societies that are abundant with comedic material. It is, in fact, downright difficult to conceive of a world without plenty to laugh at. Our species appears to be unique in its sense of, and appetite for, comedy. Being funny and having a sense of humor are undoubtedly essential biological attributes — the spiritual and psychological benefits of laughter are also virtually undisputed.
So if we live in an unfunny world, it must be that people have lost their funny bone. That, or the true jokers have ceased to bring the comedy to our attention.
Apparently this is what we get when that happens:
It is the lack of funny that I find offensive here. When I say offensive, I simply mean it repulses me. It should be locked away in a YouTube cringe compilation where decent folk can be spared its contents.
I’m not sure how much of an issue this has become. I’ve been blissfully ignorant of the news these past couple weeks — and, naturally, all the smarter for it — I know it’s been used in a couple of Trump ads. Perhaps most have shrugged it off. But insofar as the offense has exceeded les cringé, I thought I’d suggest appreciating this latest reminder of why we’re winning. They are not funny. At all.
“Funny is the opposite of not funny, and of nothing else. The question of whether a man expresses himself in a grotesque or laughable phraseology, or in a stately and restrained phraseology, is not a question of motive or of moral state, it is a question of instinctive language and self-expression. Whether a man chooses to tell the truth in long sentences or short jokes is a problem analogous to whether he chooses to tell the truth in French or German. Whether a man preaches his gospel grotesquely or gravely is merely like the question of whether he preaches it in prose or verse. The question of whether Swift was funny in his irony is quite another sort of question to the question of whether Swift was serious in his pessimism. Surely even Mr. McCabe would not maintain that the more funny ‘Gulliver’ is in its method the less it can be sincere in its object. The truth is, as I have said, that in this sense the two qualities of fun and seriousness have nothing whatever to do with each other, they are no more comparable than black and triangular. Mr. Bernard Shaw is funny and sincere. Mr. George Robey is funny and not sincere. Mr. McCabe is sincere and not funny. The average Cabinet Minister is not sincere and not funny.” — G.K. Chesterton, Heretics
A New Year approaches! This means that before the night is through, you’re supposed to determine some change of course – preferably one for the better – that you’ll have every intention of sticking with but will likely abandon by February. A handful of you might be of the fortunate mindset that allows for relatively easy implementation of changes, probably due to some hard-fought wrangling with your ego. These will-warriors may be so in control of themselves that any resolution made tonight would be indistinguishable from the one they made on June 27th.
And then there’s the rest of us…. I suppose I can be grateful that I have so many vices that all sorts of colorful combinations of resolutions can be chosen, and I’ll still have more to take on next year!
I’ve just returned from CVS with a box of nicotine patches. I’ve got four cigarettes left in my last pack ever – four is my lucky number. I plan to enjoy the six-pack I’ve picked up, not-particularly-enjoy my final cancer sticks, and then get to bed early so I can wake up to a New Year!
So, what are my fellow habit-slaves going to escape from in 2020? Do you think you’ll keep your word to yourself past February?
In honor of this special day, I thought I’d write a brief (edit: I tried to keep it brief, I really did!) response to a post @westernchauvinist put together some time ago. Here, she asked the Ricochetti what it would take to bring them back to church. Though it elicited many thoughts at the time, I’m finally getting back to you, WC.
Excepting the funeral masses I’ve worked this year, this has been the first I attended all year – before I’m accused of being one of those who steals the seats of you regular attendees during the holidays, I’ll admit that I haven’t gone to a Christmas Mass in years. I wasn’t raised in the Catholic Church, but I’ve known for some time that the church of my mother’s family is the one I belong to, and that any return to a hospital for sinners would be to a Catholic hospital.
But, oddly enough, the Pope has undermined my better intentions.
A millennial, I’ve always had a large buffet of superfluous clubs devoted to inclusivity. Perhaps I ought to have put that last word in quotations, because that word these people keep saying: I don’t think it means what they think it means. I’d say the correct definition entails allowing anyone to be a member, but to belong to a membership, an institution is required – and an institution requires a creed. I do not believe the Church has lost its creed, but its leader has put individuals like myself in the difficult position of feeling that our first action within the Church would be to tell a fib. And I really hate telling fibs!
Today was easy, though. I knew a dedication would be made to my late grandfather. The man is among the most important people to me, and my biggest regret was that I didn’t go through the confirmation process while he was alive. While I was sitting there this morning, I thought of WC’s opening question, and it occurred to me that it is the faithful who have shepherded me back home – this includes many of you on Ricochet.
So as this special new year approaches, one which reminds us of clear vision, I’m resolving to plant my rear in the pews on a more regular basis. (I’m a single man, under the age of 30, so I probably shouldn’t promise to make it every week, see my fibbing policy above.) Which, P.S., if you know of any parishes with some lovely young ladies, I don’t think that would hurt!
Thanks for all of you who’ve helped. And Merry Christmas to everyone!
Whoops! I started the draft for my last post of Cuba at least a month ago, but I took so many photographs there (and liked them so much) that cutting away at the pictures was a serious task. I did my best, but even so, I’ll have to break the time my family spent in Sanctus Spiritus in half. Below are photographs of the road to, and city of, Trinidad; among Cuba’s loveliest locales.
The Road to….
La Ciudad de Trinidad:
This is the only photograph I have of the woman above. In the very brief time I spent around her, she epitomized gracefulness in a way that a young American today is unlikely to encounter. She was the hired help at the very stylish apartments we stayed in, and she took care of all of our needs. When we were about to depart, my older sister (who speaks passable Spanish) informed her that we had put together a small gift basket of goods that are ordinary to us Americans, but precious to the average Cuban – soap, shampoo, makeup (these are the top commodity there), along with some treats and a tip. The woman’s eyes were immediately shot with terror. She did her best to explain that the very congenial man who owned the lovely place we were staying at would not allow her to keep these gifts if he were aware of them.
I’m not sure that there was a single event that informed us of how foreign this world was to us. This man, who was almost certainly well-connected, and likely enjoyed the kind of intimate relationship with the Communists that reigned in privileges and wealth was clearly more complicated than we had been led to believe. While I can live with the fact that every system has its prejudices and special favors, I hadn’t encountered anything quite so corrupt as what this woman was subjected to.
Thankfully, my sister could communicate, got the message, and figured out how to arrange that these meager offerings were delivered to the person who deserved them.
I really loved the colors of this country. This is one of the few areas where I’ll concede that the Cubans have us beat.
Yes! That is a Hello Kitty bike caught in all the rubble. (It was among the creepiest things I encountered.)
The photographic tour of Cuba continues, heading south, to Playa Girón. To Americans, this is the infamous site where hundreds of Cubans were slaughtered after Castro’s forces met a weak militia that anticipated American support. I can’t say what the average Cuban thinks about the failed invasion, but their fates were sealed — Cuba was Castro’s.
The beauty of this region makes it no wonder that he would build a compound there, just between the bay and the country’s “Perla del Sur,” Cienfuegos. This area is another favorite of Europeans and other tourists who can enjoy an excess of resorts, restaurants, nifty art galleries, and shops, along with spectacular beaches. Without the propaganda billboards, one might confuse this area with paradise.
The Bay of Pigs/Battle of Girón Museum.
“Here a decisive fight was fought for victory.”
Very little of the construction I saw around the countryside left the impression that the projects would become anything. The site to the right was one of the rare exceptions.
Another bus stop – again, in the middle of nowhere. The graffiti translates to “Your mother, if she’s dead, better…”
Next stop, Cienfuegos! If you missed the last posts, please check them out. First, Havana. Followed by Vinales.
My father would be very pleased to know that I posted this photo of he, my older brother, and me.
Since I got away with sharing a vacation slide show without complaint, I’ll try my luck again. From Havana, our guide took us on an excursion, 185 kilometers west of the city, to visit the karstic wonder, Vinales. Cuban highways have about as much pedestrian traffic on them as they do automotive; tobacco fields and drying huts dominate the foreground and are contained by the forested mountains in the distance.
On the way there, we were able to stop by a farm whose operators were friends of our guide. Instead of helping the regime, we were able to load up on cigars and enjoy some delicious fresh lemonade. As unsettling Havana was upon arriving (and I was visiting from New Orleans!) you really have to leave the city to get a sense of the poverty that Cubans have to struggle with.
A bus stop of sorts. This is on the highway heading away from Havana.
People walking along the virtually empty highway is common. Most commuters rely on hitchhiking to get to Havana or Santiago.
A gorgeous little restaurant outside of Vinales.
This is Miss! You might’ve already met Miss. I was pleasantly surprised by the way the Cubans took to her. She was everyone’s favorite Block.Little sister.This is a restaurant!
Vinales, Cuba.
This was one of those rare sights that gave me a taste of what the country would have been like before the revolution
This seemed to be the most popular form of transport besides walking. Again, this is on one of the nation’s major roadways.
Older sister.
Padre y Miss.
Another bus stop along the highway. I did my best to get shots of these, but we were moving about 50 to 70 km whenever we passed one.
State property! (The cows anyway. Even if somebody else owns the land. Up to 18 years imprisonment for butchering one.)
I’ll put together photos of Cienfuegos and Bahia de Cochinos (Bay of Pigs) next. Stay tuned.
About three years ago I traveled to Cuba with my family. For a couple of reasons, I decided against writing a post about it. Perhaps one day I’ll do my best to convince you that Communism is not where it’s at.
I did, however, plan to put together some of my better photographs from the trip and let y’all have a look, but my computer crashed shortly after I returned and it has taken time to track the pictures down from my family. It takes a bit of time to transport pictures electronically — even if you’re not technologically-challenged like myself — and I thought you might prefer it if the collections are shorter, so I’ll break it up and see if y’all are interested.
For this first post, I’ll show Havana. Unfortunately I haven’t been able to find the ones we got on a different camera that show “Old Town,” which is where tourists spend most of their time (especially the ones who say how great the place is.) On our trip, we were fortunate to have a guide whose goal was to show the “real” Cuba. As a result, we didn’t spend more than a few hours there, and the only pictures I have of it here are on the periphery.
So, anyway, here’s the “real” Havana:
Building like this – with caved in roofs or collapsed balconies – are all over the city.
Another balcony that has collapsed, with rebars left sticking out. Considering the faded paint, it may have been years ago that the collapse occurred, without any reconstruction in the works.
One of the few “Old Town” photos I have.
The building that is second from the far right has a sign that reads “Viva Fidel!” These signs are all over the country.
Not exactly a “Cuban” building. If memory serves, the ominous building to the left is the Russian Embassy.
The Hotel Nacional
Carnivals like this apparently take place every weekend, well into the early morning. This was taken from the Hotel Nacional
Don Mclean’s classic, “American Pie,” would not likely become the hit it was in 1971 if released today. Apart from the biblical references or its unembarrassed use of the word “love,” the song has another disadvantage. It was written at a time when popular music was for everybody.
Today, the popular arts are strictly for the kids – or more broadly, toward non-adults. (The country’s easiest target demographic.) And the non-adults have objectively bad taste buds today. More importantly, despite access to the entire repository of world culture in their pockets, so many of them don’t know how to read – at least not in any meaningful way. Thus, those thankless gatekeepers we once called critics are no longer accessible to them.
I don’t recall finishing an entire book before I was 20 years old, but I did have one thing that kept me grounded: the movies and the music. I was a terrible student, but I had a big imagination. The issue was that my reading skills were poor, and I never encountered anything that excited me enough to make the struggle worthwhile. But my love of a different art form, but which also delivered stories instilled in me an interest in virtually everything other than reading. I couldn’t follow the words on the page, but I could hear the poetry when accompanied by music. So, I sincerely believe, as McLean did, that the popular arts can save one’s moral soul.
Fortunately for me, I grew up before the year the culture broke. Just before it broke, in fact.
But I needed help understanding what it all meant. Enter Armond White, from stage right. I’d have been about 20 when I discovered his work. I first learned of the despicable nature of our nation’s press by following the ganging up on America’s best critic – often littered with a smug pettiness and even some racial condescension, to boot. Well, they messed up. When he got picked up by National Review, I followed. And there I discovered conservatism.
Now, I want to bring your attention to a brilliant piece of his, wherein he claims 2004 as the year the culture broke. Reflecting on it with a decade already passed, he contemplates the significance of the year that moviegoers were split on two of the big sensations, Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ and Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 911.
I went to see Fahrenheit in a theatre in Manhattan. Driving the irony home was the fact that the man who took me and his son – a longtime family friend – was 106 stories up, along with his son, my father, and myself on the evening of September 4, 2001. (We’re Floridians, so while that might not seem like much of a coincidence to New Yorkers, it’s sufficiently eerie to me.) To this man’s credit, he did fall asleep about halfway through, but perhaps he’d have been wiser to have left his boys with the greatest “man” who ever lived, rather than with a insufferable, pontificating blob.
But back to Mr. White.
White would’ve been coming of age around the time McLean released his biggest hit. Along with the intoxicating tunes coming out of jukeboxes and eight-track tapes, Hollywood was enjoying a Renaissance of its own. Pauline Kael and Andrew Sarris were sparring a bit over Auteur Theory and the cinephiles were taking sides. But the young Mr. White thought better, integrating both, and deeming the pair his intellectual parents.
If you skipped the link above, click on it here. I’ll wait.
As five more long years have passed since White mourned our loss, I’d say we’re not much closer to completing the healing process. The division has been so bad that even Armond’s – and the nation’s – beloved Steven Spielberg has been lost. Excluding the rare exceptions like David O’Russell, Jonathan Demme, and the Coen Brothers, popular artists have abandoned their task of bringing us joy and touching our souls. Most would rather appeal to our prejudices and preach their politics.
Imagine the glee this evokes in our country’s foes. Imagine Putin – the only subject that seems to appeal to America’s bipartisan side – and the big grin he’s got on his face. Fifteen years and Americans have yet to begin patching up our injuries.
All the while, Satan laughs with delight.
Let’s end this on a high note, shall we? There is hope. The American Cinema Foundation has picked up Mr. White on their board, where he will be joined by the brilliant @titustechera! They’re doing wonderful work over there, give them support any way you can!
Let’s give Satan a good kick in the privates so the public can finally be at peace.
The millennial is back! (Collective ugh!) But allow me to reassure you that I’m into the whole brevity thing.
Last week, I wrote a post declaring it playtime for conservatives. Though we are all familiar with the adage “you can’t have your cake and eat it too,” it’s always struck me as a no-brainer; the cake will go bad if we let it sit out too long, and at least you can have it in your tummy for a little while after eating.
Let’s cut the cake, Ricochet.
I quoted G.K. Chesterton in my most recent QOTD post, wherein he expressed the laziness of big words. He believed small words to be the especially challenging ones – they are the words that require precision. (Think about the word “science” if you need an example of one that lost it)
So in the Sunday spirit, I thought I’d say a few words on that four-letter wonder: play!
For starters, I could say that if the weather is as beautiful in your town today, as it is in mine, and you’re indoors getting your political fix, you’re probably doing it wrong. If you’ve ever listened to Andrew Klavan (a man who is nothing if not a player) you’ve probably heard him bemoan the fact that conservatives abandoned the culture. But why did they do that?
I suspect that they came to the conclusion that they had better things to do. Unfortunately, they were wrong. Entertainment is what moves us, it’s the reason healthy people get out of bed to go to work: so they can support a life. And “life” is the time we spend with our friends and family, with the things we love. Play is not something we do because it is great for our work, but it just so happens that it is good for our work.
If you were to try to sell a kid of my generation on capitalism, don’t talk about air conditioning or sewage. Talk about movies, talk about the Beatles, talk about video games, about craft beer, or good vegan recipes. But for now, don’t worry about selling a kid on capitalism. For now, find out what interests them, and what concerns them. If they bring up climate change, press the skip button. But if they bring up girls, let them know that if they’re willing to take on the responsibilities of being a man, then the privileges will come.
I’ll say it again, we’ve got one hell of an opportunity. We’re in a good position to turn the culture our way. Nobody likes a bossy playmate, and the opposition has chosen the likes of Lena Dunham, Alyssa Milano, and Greta Thunberg to reach out to America’s youth.
So get outside and play!
Shout out to @garymcvey for teaching me how to hyperlink. Thanks, G.
I suppose the last thing anybody wants to do right now is to listen to the ramblings of a millennial. I’ll do my best to be brief (and bearable!)
Alas, the Left is at it again: reminding the adults of exactly why so many of us – without regret – gave Donald Trump the keys to the car, instead of allowing four more years of their social, political, and mental pollution. Many of them are people with whom we cannot have a conversation, making it entirely accurate to label them our enemies. Even if we don’t hate them, we have no choice but to fight.
But “fighting” isn’t enough. If this is truly a moral battle, then we have to win. If we have to win, then we are morally responsible for making the necessary adjustments. Of course, this is not going to be easy to agree upon, but I have some thoughts, and I’d be interested in what Ricochet has to say.
I’ve known of this Greta Thunberg for approximately three days. Half of the country finds her – as they find everyone who holds popular opinions – stunning and brave. The other is angry. Rightly so, but conservatives do have a way of living up to their stereotype.
They’re not angry with her, but with the adults around her. The problem is that there are no adults around her, just people of a certain age (what has that age been moved back to? 38?) This is a girl surrounded by people as deluded and unstable as she. It’s the sad reality children face today; rarely do they know adults. But I’m digressing a bit. Greta isn’t really my subject.
The Right has a major opportunity, but, one that I’m not entirely confident that they will see.
There cannot be many examples in our nation’s history in which a political party has faced off against one as unlikable as our current opponents. I don’t mean unlikable in the sense that they may have stood for repugnant ideals, slavers are surely worse. Rather, I mean one which has so little to offer – even in terms of fruitless, “Hope and Change” sloganeering – to anybody who isn’t wealthy and bored.
As @susanquinn pointed out in the comments of one of her posts, conservatives are not used to playing the role of the archetypal Joker. I think it’s time we practice. There are many, many kids who can be saved. I just graduated from a public university and met some of them. We have to learn to speak in a language that they can understand. A lot depends on the Right learning how to be the adults who can play the game.
“It is customary to complain of the bustle and strenuousness of our epoch. But in truth the chief mark of our epoch is a profound laziness and fatigue; and the fact is that the real laziness is the cause of the apparent bustle. Take one quite external case; the streets are noisy with taxicabs and motor cars; but this is not due to human activity but to human repose. There would be less bustle if there were more activity, if people were simply walking about. Our world would be more silent if it were more strenuous. And this which is true of the apparent physical bustle is true also of the apparent bustle of the intellect. Most of the machinery of modern language is labour-saving machinery; and it saves mental labour very much more than it ought. Scientific phrases are are used like scientific wheels and piston-rods to make swifter and smoother yet the path of the comfortable. Long words go rattling by us like long railway trains. We know they are carrying thousands who are too tired or too indolent to walk and think for themselves.”
– G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy
These words were published in 1908. I think it’s safe to say that the past 111 years have only added to the noise that our ancestors found so alarming. Yet with all the conversation (or screaming), and all the frenzied rushing, how much are we really saying, or accomplishing? Words like “oppression,” “narrative,” “misogyny,” “hypocrisy,” “fundamental,” are all used in a way which serves mostly to obfuscate and complicate. They retain an inkling of their traditional meaning but have become charged with an added, often contradictory purpose.
Chesterton goes on to pose a challenge: to try and express yourself using only words with one syllable – he deemed the small words to be the truly rigorous ones. Unfortunately, even these are coming under attack: “men,” “women,” “health,” and “care,” for instance, have become victims to this confusion. The bustle can be overwhelming and downright disheartening at times, but I do have a calmative to offer: the words of Gilbert Keith. If you’re anything like me, you’ll find solace in Chesterton’s ability to display that there really is nothing new under the sun, and you may find yourself moving through his pages with the same permanent, stupefied grin that I’ve had ever since taking the advice of a Ricochet member to spend some time with G.K.
Perhaps I shouldn’t be so quick to assign an individual such an unequivocal spot in the hierarchy of all humanity, but the thing about Miss (the name I’ll use for writing about her on the internet) is that she’s not an ordinary person. She’s special.
Miss was born in 1988, the third child of what would become the little Block quintet. Her place in middle is fitting, she’s served faithfully as the family stone ever since. Though her siblings are scattered all about the southeast, each of us happily receives calls and text messages asking “What’s happing?” on a regular basis – I myself am the gleeful recipient of a brief FaceTime chat nearly every evening. And though her rejuvenative powers are mighty, capable of stopping a bad day in its tracks, they do not suffice to encapsulate her abilities. Ten years have passed since my parents’ divorce, and in the past two years, my mother has attended a Block family reunion and my father has become a regular attendee of Christmas at Grandmother’s house with the Taylor clan during this timespan.
As you can see, Miss has proven quite capable of heading off the degenerative forces our modern, abortive culture. I know my folks like all five of us, but Miss deserves sole credit in this case. She’s made the kind of clean break that contemporary couples hope for impossible, and, while I’m sure it served as an irritation for my parents for years, her unintentional obstinance has been a boon to the whole family. Perseverance, after all, has been a dominant theme throughout Miss’s life.
When delivered, her Down syndrome was such a surprise that I have been told the family obstetrician broke into tears. In his defense, my father tells me that she was blue and her mannerisms were almost shockingly lifeless in the moments after her birth. In fact, this doctor’s failure to identify her condition had such an impact on him that when my mother came to him for her fourth pregnancy (carrying yours truly), upon her refusal to allow an additional, potentially risky test, he insisted she find another doctor. I don’t know whether my parents had any contact with him in the years since, but it is unfortunate that he didn’t understand that rather than a strain, it was the value added to our family that was immeasurable.
Even so, there were other troubles which arose early. At the age of 4, Miss was diagnosed with primary idiopathic pulmonary hemosiderosis, an incredibly rare condition characterized by episodic bleeding of the lungs. With a fifth child on the way, my parents were traveling around the country, bankrupting themselves in the process, hoping to determine what was ailing their little girl. Eventually a biopsy revealed the dire circumstances, there was little hope for rehabilitation. When admitted to the local hospital in West Palm Beach, not only were the chances of recovery low, but on the doubtful occasion that any improvement occurred, the likelihood of it being followed with a subsequent deluge were incredibly likely.
On Christmas Day, 1992, they received a late night call. Naturally, they were expecting the worst, but Miss appeared to have other plans. The doctors were calling to inform my parents that Miss had removed an oxygen tube with her tongue that had been assumed to be her lifeline. I guess science underestimated Miss. As I understand it, her well timed miracle was actually dwarfed by the fact that her condition was defeated entirely – the doctors assumed it was only a matter of time before her symptoms returned. They never did (I mentioned she has powers, right?).
Today, Miss is as busy as can be. She volunteers at three thrift shops – one, an auxiliary of the local hospital, another connected to the Episcopalian church she attends, and the last is one is connected to an outreach program which provides services to the victims of domestic violence. Additionally, she works at the family owned funeral home. My mother, who runs said business, and is Miss’s primary caregiver, probably deserves some sort of official accolade – “Mother of a Lifetime” would probably do. That her youngest sister also has Down syndrome certainly gave her a head start, but even so, the challenges for a parent in these circumstances cannot be easily overlooked.
But back to Miss…
I would not consider mine to be a religious family. In fact, I’d say that my eldest sister and I (the two siblings who bookend Miss) are the only ones who have developed any interest in the divine. Nevertheless, I don’t think it’s lost on a single one of us that we’ve been blessed to have Miss all these years – she isn’t just mine, but all of our favorite – and despite the innumerable errors racked up by my large family, the failure to appreciate Miss is one sin that we can comfortably say we have little to atone for.
Then again, I suppose loving an angel isn’t exactly hard work.
Of the whole clan, I probably got the best deal. There was no life without Miss for me. For nearly all elementary milestones I had my big sister there learning the ropes with me – potty training, swimming lessons, verbalizing (her’s was the first name I learned). We did nearly everything together. I always had a partner in crime – and, turns out, having a kid with Downs with you while getting into trouble make people inclined to be entirely more merciful. (Just sayin’)
Myself, the famous Uncle Megz (pronounced Muh-Kye-Zee, so named by Miss herself), and Miss herself!
I can still remember very clearly when my father sat me down to explain to me that I’d soon begin to surpass Miss, that I would effectively become the big brother of my older sister. Before this it had never occurred to me that Miss was any different from the rest. Perhaps it was this introduction to the fundamental unfairness of life, and the need for the acceptance of personal responsibility, that inexorably led me to Ricochet; maybe I failed somewhere along the way, and those heartless republicans were able to dig in. Regardless, I cannot quantify the debt I owe to my sister for a basic introduction to decency and compassion. Insofar as I have developed character or integrity of any sort, it has come from my time with Girl-friendly (okay, so she has a lot of nicknames).
Politics has its time and place, but, on Miss’s day it can wait. A week after the celebration of our nation’s independence let us partake in a micro-celebration of a smaller, but still significant, miracle.
Happy Thirty-First Birthday, Miss! You’re my favorite.
“Your representative owes you, not his industry only, but his judgment; and he betrays, instead of serving you, if he sacrifices it to your opinion.” — Edmund Burke
The best joke-tellers are those who have the patience to wait for conversation to come around to the point where the jokes in their repertoire have application. — Joseph Epstein, Familiar Territory
The Hotel Nacional
