You have to admire pets like cats, dogs, and rabbits, adapting so successfully to what is, for them, a strange environment–the human home. They do not behave under our roofs as they would if they lived outdoors in a state of nature.
Domestication never would’ve worked if animals were as dumb as we are.
Someone around here was enthused enough to prefer my books to J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. Well, what can I say?
I first read The Lord of the Rings in high school, and it overwhelmed me. My imagination was already on fire, thanks to Edgar Rice Burroughs–first his Pellucidar novels, and then his tales of adventure on Mars. But Tolkien–!
I was astonished that such a book could ever have been written. Burroughs’ books are short; Tolkien’s was a monumental trilogy. You wind up spending a lot of time in it. The marvelous thing about The Lord of the Rings was that it positively came alive for me: it made me believe in the story that it told. Perhaps it was the mass of detail: Tolkien’s imaginary world is vast. To this day, after many re-readings, I’m sure I could find my way around the Shire, and I’m sure I’d like it there. And I’d know which places to avoid–Mordor, Mirkwood, and the Mines of Moria.
I’ve never seen any illustrations of LOTR which satisfied me. That’s because Tolkien’s art made his people and places real to me, as if I’d actually been there, seen them; and any illustration is, of course, someone else’s imagination, and can never show me anything exactly how I’d already imagined it myself.
It gave me a burning desire to write fantasy. I can’t even guess how many pages I turned out in notebooks, and on my old manual typewriter, trying to imitate Tolkien, trying to match him. But I can say it took several decades for me to realize that the world didn’t need another Tolkien: any fantasies I wrote would have to be my fantasies, and no one else’s. And that took another couple of decades to accomplish.
It’s important to remember that when LOTR came out, there was nothing else remotely like it. Since then, the fantasy genre has been suffocated with Tolkien wannabes, shamelessly ripping off his once-upon-a-time unique creation. I still love Tolkien’s Elves and Dwarves and warriors, etc., but find everybody else’s cheap imitations intolerable. I suspect that if my first reading had been now instead of then, it wouldn’t have had the impact that it did.
Burroughs and Tolkien inspired me, and I doubt my own books would ever have been written if I hadn’t read theirs first. I still stand up and salute The Chessmen of Mars, and in my imagination, search for the road to the forest of Lothlorien.
It’s hard to make predictions when you don’t have reliable information, and that’s exactly what I don’t have. “Journalists” don’t provide it anymore, and we’re certainly not going to get it from our political parties. So all I can go by is what I see:
*Both parties are acting like they’re terrified of losing and think there’s a damned good chance of it. So they oversell everything.
*Both parties seem to be preparing assorted excuses for losing.
*Both parties clearly are trying to scare their voters into going to the polls, shelling out money, etc. I am already scared of Democrats and don’t need prodding. What I do need is facts. But you can’t even buy facts anymore.
Muddying the waters further, the Democrats have gone from proposing bad public policy to offering policy recommendations that are downright outre. Fantastic. “Open borders”–really? Repeal the tax cuts–what? Do they really think those bizarre ideas appeal to anyone who’s halfway normal?
But every time I go to check the nooze, it’s Blue Wave, we’re sunk, they’re gonna win, and get rid of the president, and then it gets really nasty…
So I don’t know what to predict. In June of 2016, right here on this blog, I predicted Donald Trump would be our next president. I think I might’ve been the only one. But that’s what the information I had was telling me.
For tomorrow’s election, I have no information.
I really hate it, every two years, having to pray frantically for my country–praying we can dodge yet another bullet. Last Election Day, 2016, we dodged a freakin’ cannonball. I say “we dodged,” but what really happens is, God spares us. And tomorrow is another Election Day already: another bullet that must be dodged.
Lord, we really are trying to push this country back onto the right course: and you’ve got to know how badly we need your help. The delicate machinery of our republic has been given up to rust and corruption for many years, and there are many people who will have it so. They own the nooze media, the education establishment, Hollywood, at least half the big business corporations… and they own the Democrat Party. And they tell us, right up front, that what they want is “open borders” (quick quiz: name a country, any country, just one, that actually has had open borders–betcha can’t!), transgenderism, strangulation of the national economy, more abortions, the authority to throw people into prison for not believing in Climbit Change, purposeful corruption and politicization of all agencies of government, and a general suppression of the Christian religion. We know they’re for these things because they’ve said so!
So again we pray: Lord, you know who your enemies are: please smite them. Blast them with a great defeat that will keep them out of power forever. You know what they stand for, you know what they’ve done, and you know what they mean to do if they ever get the chance.
Deliver us again, O Lord, out of the hands of Democrats–I was going to say, “and other Far Left Crazy loons,” but it seems all of them are in the Democrat Party now, so saying so would be redundant. Deliver us, O Lord our God; in Jesus’ name, Amen.
These white people wouldn’t have to pay it.
This was only a joke, three years.
Put Democrats in power, and see how long it stays a joke.
https://leeduigon.com/2015/07/21/white-privilege-tax-are-liberals-retarded/
Sorry to mention it again: but the vote is tomorrow, and those people have got to be crushed. Hopefully for good.
Requested by Erlene: Alan Jackson singing Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus. Mellow and sweet. Thanks, Erlene.
Our little angels aren’t little angels all the time. Just ask any dog.
A few of these clips have already appeared in other compilations, but they’re still funny. And I don’t see any animals (or hapless people) getting hurt, so I guess it’s all in fun. Certainly the cat hiding in the cupboard had fun.
In Chapter CCXXX of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney–we’re still waiting for Chapter CCXXIX–Violet Crepuscular writes of a visit to Scurveyshire by Bram Stoker, the famed author of Dracula. It is vain to protest that Stoker wasn’t born until 1847 and would have been only three years old in 1850. “I do not believe the dates commonly given,” asserts Ms. Crepuscular. Nor do we get anywhere by denying that Stoker spoke fluent Pidgin with a broad Irish accent. “My sources are impeccable,” she says. We are not sure she knows what “impeccable” means.
Stoker comes to Scurveyshire to do research for Dracula, which was not published until 1897. He is immediately informed that “We ain’t had but one vampire in Scurveyshire, and he retired from it long ago to go into the tea business. Last we heard, he had a big plantation in Norway.” But before he can leave, he learns that Scurveyshire is being terrorized by the long-dead necromancer, Black Rodney. His interest is piqued.
Stoker interviews Constable Chumley at The Lying Tart, where the local brew goes straight to his head and incites him to entertain the night’s customers by reciting rather lurid nursery rhymes. “Yer flothering bandy fair made a clogger that brawsty night,” the constable recalls.
The next night, Stoker disappears. Forever. It is discovered that the itinerant spider girl, Lizzie Snivel, fell madly in love with Scurveyshire’s exotic visitor: and also that he took advantage of her infatuation to purchase from her a rare Tasmanian blow-dried spider at a shamefully low price. Miss Lizzie, the only witness, insists that Mr. Stoker, hunting for traces of Black Rodney, ventured dangerously close to the wading pool in the vicar’s back yard. “I fear he was dragged under by them tentacles!” she cries. “Oh, I should have stopped him!”
Still trying to plan his wedding to Lady Margo Cargo, Lord Jeremy Coldsore finds it hard to do his duty as Scurveyshire’s justice of the peace. “I don’t have time to investigate the disappearance of a Pidgin-speaking Irishman!” he cries. So there is no investigation, and the wading pool has claimed another victim.
We are promised that in Chapter CCXXXI, Lord Jeremy will acquire a new cravat especially for the wedding.
My mother used to sing this to each of her children, in turn, as a lullaby: Bell Bottom Trousers. Most of the versions on Youtube have naughty lyrics that we never got to hear. Most of the arrangements are for loud, brassy music; but my mother sang it softly, as a lullaby. With different lyrics!
“Bell bottom trousers, coat of Navy blue/ Your daddy was a sailor, you’ll be a sailor, too.”
Thing was, our daddy really was a sailor, during World War II. And the old storage space in our house–all that was left of the attic, after he’d converted it to bedrooms–was chock-full of stuff he brought back from the war. Dad’s ship was based in the Philippines, and he had a lot of little knick-knacks from there: plus the whole panoply of his sailor duds.
Oh, where is all that stuff now? Dad and Ma moved so many times, and we played carelessly with the souvenirs as kids: I don’t think there’s any of it left, other than a few Filipino coins from the war years.
But it was a nice lullaby: and I was very proud of my Daddy the sailor–never crossed my mind that he was little more than a kid himself, when he clapped eyes on the Pacific Ocean. How young he was…
Jambo, everybody, Mr. Nature here! And for this safari, all I’ve got to do is look out the window.
I could have sworn that on Friday the leaves of all these maple trees were green; but on Saturday morning, they were all gold. Which means they turned overnight? How did they do that? I mean, hey, that was really fast! (My wife says yes, they were still green on Friday: she noticed, too.)
I could look up and study the natural processes by which green maple leaves turn to gold; but I think I’d rather just marvel at it. Come on, now–the leaves turned color overnight! Is that cool?
This is Mr. Nature, loving God’s stuff.