You Say "Po-tay-toe", I Say . . .

Kevin Drum is spot on here.

You know, as crass as it sounds, when it comes to things like war and the assessing the implications of, for instance, torturing the enemy, our concern should not simply be humanistic (though, that it should be as well!); nor is it an end-all rationale for either pulling all soldiers out of Iraq or dismissing the Arab press wholesale as disseminators of anti-Americanism. *sigh* War, this war in particular, is surely one of truth and justice (to be sure), and it is to be fought with force . . . but also, and this is something that is damn frustrating, considering how (ahem!) 'good' America is at propagandizing its own people, public relations. It is a lesson, to some extent, 'the evil doers' have learned rather well (see here).

Now, is America so pitifully bad at public relations because it is a superpower, and because people tend to pull for the populist challenger? Maybe. Or, and this is my thought, is there is also something more inherent to the American moral compass that blinds us to the perspective of others? I'm currently working on a paper dealing with the latter (well, not specifically, but it is close enough in scope). Ideally, I'll have something intelligent to say about it sometime this week. Stay tuned.

UPDATE: Incidentally, re: all this talk of abuse and such, Seymour Hersh's latest article in the New Yorker, wherein he investigates how far up the blame goes -- and with what regularity prisoners were abused -- is a definite must-read.

UPDATE²: Oh, and yes, it's sometimes easy to miss the forest for all these torturous trees. The Medium Lobster points us in the right direction:

** The activities that occurred at Abu Ghuraib prison are not to be compared to those of Saddam Hussein's rape rooms and torture chambers. After all, those were rape rooms and torture chambers. These were merely rooms in which rape occurred, and chambers in which individuals were tortured.

** In war, atrocities will happen, as dew on the grass in the morning, or flower blossoms in the spring. The dew gathers. The buds open. The atrocities bloom. It is all according to the mysterious, ever-unfolding cycle of life - a cycle too vast and complex for mere mortals to comprehend.

** These were isolated incidents, and the behavior of these prison guards should in no way reflect upon the military superiors who endorsed and promoted such behavior. This is because atrocities are supervenient on subordinates, but not on command structures. Those with greater learning will understand.

Got that? Good. Now, can we please go back to talking about John Kerry's medals (or were they ribbons!?!) and whether or not American Idol is crap . . . er I mean racist? Let it never be said that America doesn't know an important news story when it sees one.

Good For a Sunday Read

I will have more to say about this a bit later, but for the time being I highly recommend that you take the time to read Michael Ignatieff's cover article in today's New York Times Magazine: "Lesser Evils". Ignatieff is here talking very practically and even-handedly about the 'war on terror' -- namely, how one wins (and loses) such a war.

A teaser:

Regulating a war on terror with ethical rules and democratic oversight is much harder than regulating traditional wars. In traditional wars, there are rules, codes of warriors' honor that are supposed to limit the barbarity of the conflict, to protect civilians from targeting, to keep the use of force proportional and to keep it confined to military objectives. The difference between us and terrorists is supposed to be that we play by these rules, even if they don't. No, I haven't forgotten Hiroshima and My Lai. The American way of war has often been brutal, but at least our warriors are supposed to fight with honor and can be punished if they don't. There is no warrior's honor among terrorists.

[. . .]

The siren song in any war on terror is ''let slip the dogs of war.'' Let them hunt. Let them kill. Already, we have dogs salivating at the prospect. A liberal society cannot be defended by herbivores. We need carnivores to save us, but we had better make sure the meat-eaters hunt only on our orders.

Taunting us until we let the dogs slip is any canny terrorist's best hope of success. The Algerian terrorists who fought the French colonial occupation in the 1950's had no hope of defeating the armies of France in pitched battle. Their only chance of victory lay in provoking the French into a downward spiral of reprisals, indiscriminate killings and torture so that the Algerian masses would rise in hatred and the French metropolitan population would throw up its hands in disgust. The tactic worked. Terror won in Algeria because France lost its nerve and lost its control of counterterror.

[. . .]

On all fronts, keeping a war on terror under democratic scrutiny is critical to its operational success. A lesser-evil approach permits preventive detention, where subject to judicial review; coercive interrogation, where subject to executive control; pre-emptive strikes and assassination, where these serve publicly defensible strategic goals. But everything has to be subject to critical review by a free people: free debate, public discussion, Congressional review, in camera if need be, judicial review as a last resort. The war needs to be less secretive, not more. We need to know more about it, not less, even if what we learn is hard. If it comes to it, we need to know, every time we fly, that in case of a hijacking, the president has authorized our pilots to shoot us down if a crash risks killing still more people. In a war on terror, painful truth is far better than lies and illusions.

Above all, we need to keep faith with freedom. When terrorists strike against constitutional democracies, one of their intentions is to persuade electorates and elites that the strengths of these societies -- public debate, mutual trust, open borders and constitutional restraints on executive power- are weaknesses. When strengths are seen as weaknesses, it is easy to abandon them. If this is the logic of terror, then democratic societies must find a way to renew their belief that their apparent vulnerabilities are actually a form of strength. This does not require anything new or special. It simply means that those who have charge of democratic institutions need to do their jobs. We want C.I.A. men and women who understand that the dogs of war are needed, but that they need to be on a leash. We want judges who understand that national security is not a carte blanche for the abrogation of individual rights; a free press that keeps asking, Where are the detainees and what are you doing with them? We want a Congress that will not allow national security to prevent it from subjecting executive power to adversarial review. This, after all, is only what our Constitution intends. Our institutions were designed to regulate evil means and control potentially evil people.

The middle way -- that of an ethically responsible, and yet powerfully persuasive, democracy under the seige of terrorism -- is certainly difficult. But who would argue today that it's not worth the effort? The imperative and painful trick at this point, however, is assessing our success thus far.

The Heroic Face of America

Look, I know that there are a lot of American heroes over in places like Iraq and Afghanistan, etc. I respect our servicemen, surely. Granted, some aren't worth the beef jerky they eat for lunch -- but so it goes for any organization. You take the good apples with the bad, and for the most part assume everybody else is somewhere close enough to the middle for the whole lot of them to get the job done ethically and efficiently. For the most part, they're doing their job. Fair enough.

However . . . this new face of the American military, that of the mercenary / 'security' contractor, is a wee bit disturbing. If this be the modern military of America and her allies, bring back the draft! (Especially, um, when they're wanted war criminals.)

Reminds me a bit of 'Mercenary Song' by Steve Earle:

I guess a man's got to do what he's best at
Ain't found nothin' better so far
Been called mercenaries and men with no country
Just soldiers in search of a war

CHORUS

And we're bound for the border
We're soldiers of fortune
And we'll fight for no country but we'll die for good pay
Under the flag of of the greenback dollar
Or the peso down Mexico way.

Quite.

What Goodeth A Man If He Winneth the World . . .

Surely . . . er, hopefully, you've already seen or read about the Iraqi prison mess. If not, because Silentio is your only source of news, well, c'mon people -- start clicking those links over there on the right! The obvious upshot of the story: we've become what we've set out to destroy. Who says there's never any truth to archetypally bad, cliched fiction, eh?

Photos of U.S. soldiers abusing Iraqi prisoners drew international condemnation on Friday, prompting the stark conclusion that the U.S. campaign to win the hearts and minds of Iraqis is a lost cause.

"This is the straw that broke the camel's back for America," said Abdel-Bari Atwan, editor of the Arab newspaper Al Quds Al Arabi. "The liberators are worse than the dictators."

"They have not just lost the hearts and minds of Iraqis but all the Third World and the Arab countries," he told Reuters.

The CBS News program "60 Minutes II" on Wednesday broadcast photos taken at the Abu Ghraib prison late last year showing American troops abusing some Iraqis held at what was once a notorious center of torture and executions under toppled President Saddam Hussein.

The pictures showed U.S. troops smiling, posing, laughing or giving the thumbs-up sign as naked, male Iraqi prisoners were stacked in a pyramid or positioned to simulate sex acts with one another.

[. . .]

"That really, really is the worst atrocity," Atwan said. "It affects the honor and pride of Muslim people. It is better to kill them than sexually abuse them."

Makes you just wanna wrap yourself in the American flag, don't it?

Waiting

I hate waiting. I am that guy in a long line, the one huffing and puffing; the one shifting his weight between right and left foot far too many times for a normal person; the one muttering a myriad of vulgarities just under his breath (just loud enough for the toddler behind him hears). I am, to put it mildly, not a very patient person.

This is not, of course, anything incredibly new. I realize that if I am that guy above, there are at least a half-dozen more somewhere in the line with me. What makes it a bit more strange, I guess, is that I am oddly patient with people. I may not like a person, but I will at least give them the benefit of the doubt that they have something to bring to any given conversation. My purpose for this is, I must confess, that they might also show me the same generosity -- that is, I realize that I, too, can be both a bore and a nag.

What is different about situations that cry out for a bit of patience, though? Things like lines at the supermarket or to get into a concert; or, in my present case, waiting for the courier to show up and pick up my passport renewal papers? Situations, after all, are rarely devoid of people. Lines, typically anyway, are composed of other people. As are couriers, not to mention the people they have to deal with on any given day -- i.e., in traffic, on other courier runs, etc.). Situations, then, for the most part, are also people. Why, then, do I not give them the same sort of slack?

Is it because situations often assume your cooperation? That is, when you're in a traffic jam that you're not going to start ramming the cars ahead of you; or, when you're waiting for a courier, that you're going to sit at home between the hours of 12 and 5, eschewing lunch (because you forgot to buy anything the evening before), and, well, just bloody wait for what you're told to assume is the inevitable arrival of your courier. I'm not so sure this is the case, since there is a similar (implicit) social contract in effect between me and people -- eg., I don't, or at least rarely, walk away from somebody while they're talking (unless, that is, the act of walking away [or, say, yawning] is a rhetorical gesture to communicate something like anger or boredom, and thus to, in a way, continue the conversation). Or, is the difference that situations -- those that most often drive us crazy, anyway -- often come to us in very impersonal forms? This might explain why we call a cluster of individuals, with various stories and rationales for being at one place at one given moment in time, a LINE; or an individual worker, with bills and debts to pay, say, a COURIER.

Of course, this doesn't answer the question at all. I've still no clue as to why I should privilege my interactions with people, when in fact situations are peopled with individuals (though often strangers) as well. If anything, you'd think that the former would piss me off more. Which is more disturbing, for instance, a friend or acquaintance who betrays you (even in something as mundane as taking the last piece of chocolate out of a bowl) or a complete stranger who does something to piss you off (be it steal your wallet or take up too much space with his suitcase on the subway)? Is it even fair to differentiate at all between the faces of people and the (apparently) nameless faces of situations -- for example, between the terrible waiting at a hospital for some indication about a friend's well being and the situation of having to wait at the hospital at all (in all its nameless ugliness and reality)?

I've no clue. All I'm sure of is that I've been waiting nearly an hour, and the damned courier still isn't here; and I have very bad feeling that it was HIS grey van I saw pulling away from the curb at 11.55, as I was walking back from the post office not one hundred yards from where I live. But what else can you do but wait anyway?

And We All Say . . . . "AMEN!"

Neal Pollack has a secret ear to George W. Bush's prayer life:

Heavenly Father, give me the power to try to change what I cannot, and to not change what I can. Give me the strength to believe what is obviously false. And grant me the lack of wisdom not to know the difference.

In the name of the Saudi government, with whom I cynically and unlawfully struck a pre-war deal, and in the name of the money that went to planning a then-secret war in Iraq when it was supposed to go toward rebuilding Afghanistan, and in the name of Congress, which was not aware that it had appropriated funds thusly, and in the name of many good people whose reputations have been sullied by my political operatives because they dared tell the truth, and in the name of the American soldiers who have died or will die because of my administration’s greed and arrogance, especially the ones whose tours of duty have been extended even though they’re exhausted and injured, and in the name of the Iraqi women and children who died during the siege of Fallujah, and in the name of all the civilians from all the world’s countries who have died and will continue to die because of my willful bungling of the War On Terror, which I single-mindedly believe that you, Father, have chosen me to lead, let me say: Amen.

It's Funny Because It's True!

Alan Graham, this month's guest blogger over at Boing Boing had a great idea the other day: an homage to the late, great comedian Bill Hicks. Inspired by this, I thought that I, too, would slap down a few of my own favorite quotes:

"I'm so sick of arming the world, then sending troops over to destroy the fucking arms, you know what I mean? We keep arming these little countries, then we go and blow the shit out of them. We're like the bullies of the world, y'know. We're like Jack Palance in the movie Shane, throwing the pistol at the sheepherder's feet.

"Pick it up."

"I don't wanna pick it up, Mister, you'll shoot me."

"Pick up the gun."

"Mister, I don't want no trouble. I just came downtown here to get some hard rock candy for my kids, some gingham for my wife. I don't even know what gingham is, but she goes through about ten rolls a week of that stuff. I ain't looking for no trouble, Mister."

"Pick up the gun."

(He picks it up. Three shots ring out.)

"You all saw him - he had a gun."

******

Children are smarter than any of us. Know how I know that? I don't know one child with a full time job and children.

******

I have never seen two people on pot get in a fight because it is fucking IMPOSSIBLE. "Hey, buddy!" "Hey, what?" "Ummmmmmm...." End of argument.

******

I was in Nashville, Tennesee last year. After the show I went to a Waffle House. I'm not proud of it, I was hungry. And I'm alone, I'm eating and I'm reading a book, right? Waitress walks over to me: " Hey, whatchoo readin' for?"

Isn't that the weirdest fucking question you've ever heard? Not what am I reading, but what am I reading *for*? Well, godammit, ya stumped me! Why do I read? Well... hmmm... I dunno... I guess I read for a lot of reasons, and the main one is so I don't end up being a fucking waffle waitress.

******

You ever noticed how people who believe in Creationism look really unevolved? You ever noticed that? Eyes real close together, eyebrow ridges, big furry hands and feet. "I believe God created me in one day" Yeah, looks liked He rushed it.

******

It's always funny until someone gets hurt. Then it's just hilarious.

******

I've learned a lot about women. I think I've learned exactly how the fall of man occured in the Garden of Eden. Adam and Eve were in the Garden of Eden, and Adam said one day, "Wow, Eve, here we are, at one with nature, at one with God, we'll never age, we'll never die, and all our dreams come true the instant that we have them." And Eve said, "Yeah... it's just not enough is it?"

******

People ask me what I think about that woman priest thing. What, a woman priest? Women priests. Great, great. Now there's priests of both sexes I don't listen to.

******

What do atheists scream when they come?

Seems About Right

Statement of Audience

I realize that nothing I say matters to anyone else on the entire planet. My opinions are useless and unfocused. I am an expert in nothing. I know nothing. I am confused about almost everything. I cannot, as an individual, ever possibly know everything, or even enough to make editorial commentary on the vast vast majority of things that exist in my world. This is a stupid document; it is meaningless drivel that I do not expect any of the several billion people on my planet to actually read. People who do read my rambling, incoherent dumbfuckery are probably just as confused as I am, if not moreso, as they are looking to my sorry ass for an opinion when they should be outside playing Frisbee with their dog or screwing their life partner or getting a dog or getting a life partner. Anyone who actually takes the time to read my bullshit probably deserves to ingest my fucked up and obviously mistaken opinions on whatever it is that I have written about.

For other helpful comments about blogging -- namely, why they are "fucking stupid" -- you do not want to miss the fine piece of blogging entitled, naturally, Why I Fucking Hate Weblogs!

Re: Chapter two of his post, just to remind ourselves. I'm fairly certain I fall somewhere between a "Self-important Moron" and "The Ego Stroker." This was hardly news to you, I'm sure.

Weekend Miscellanea

I've been pretty pitiful with blogging, haven't I? Two measly posts -- one of which I've been meaning to delete since Thursday. Ach. Life, sometimes it passes you by. One of these days, what with all this writing and editing I've been doing, you'd think I'd find some time to finish this bloody PhD thesis! So it goes, so it goes.

A couple of odd encounters this week: (1) While browsing the philosophy section of a a lovely used book shop in Glasgow, I was recently confronted by an unctuous undergraduate asking a series of questions about the nature of my research that ranged from the painfully specific ('What's going on in the second paragraph of Herman Melville's short story, "The Chimney"') to the just plain painful ('So, Moby Dick represents Herman Melville's repressed homosexual desire, right?' Yes, quite.) I'd met him a few weeks ago at a lecture I sat in on -- where he barraged the guest lecturer with an odd series of questions whose upshot seemed to be: 'How can I have rampant casual sex without feeling any Christian guilt?' The lecturer, who didn't give a toss about this guy's sex life, was far more competent in handling the interrogation. In the end, I stammered ('Ummm . . . well . . . I think the fact that he probably beat his wife is a bit more interesting than who he wanted to bed'), lied ("Yeah, I've spent a lot of time pouring over Melville's understanding of the Sphinx), and finally had to knock over a stack of unshelved books to break the guy's attention long enough for me to make my escape.

The second odd encounter was truly frightening. In fact, I think it fully embodies the inherent truth of psychoanalysis -- namely, the return of that which is repressed . . . the return of the Real. I was in the library talking to an old friend of mine, when a professor approached me while calling out my name. I only vaguely knew the professor, and assumed that the sentiment was mutual, so I was rather surprised. I was, however, all the more shocked when he added: 'Do you happen to have a paper on the internet about world religions?' 'Oh, dear,' I thought -- though, to be honest, it wasn't nearly that clean a thought. Because, yes, long ago I did publish such a paper, a ridiculously conservative, very poorly nuanced paper about, so the phrase goes these days, theological humanism. Thankfully, the professor was pretty cool about the obvious dissonance between what he'd heard about me in the department and what he was reading online. Things and people change, obviously. Nevertheless, the encounter was unnerving, to say the least.

Also of note this week, a friend of mine's grandmother-in-law pooped on his bathroom mat. There is, of course, a short explanation that could, and probably should, accompany this anecdote; but I think it's funnier to leave it as it is.

What else? Oh. . . . if you get a chance, make a point of it to see the documentary Capturing the Friedmans. Disturbing, yes; frustrating, all the more; but a stunning collage of conflicting perspectives of a family's past gone grotesquely wrong. You'll walk away, quite likely, thinking your family surprisingly functional.

Lastly in this hodgepodge of miscellanea, two links. (1) I've not really given this the thought it deserves, but it looks to be something well worth the time. And on a completely different note, (2) nobody knows 'decaffeinated belief' quite like Slavoj Zizek. You may not have a clue what he's talking about during and after the first reading, but it may very well be fun trying.

A Request

I never wanted to use this blog in this way, and I suspect that I'll probably delete this post once/if I get the requested information, but here goes: I need the phone number of one Jedfrey (aka, Jedd) Tudor. Emailing him has not proven the most reliable or easiest way of getting such information. I think he reads Silentio from time to time when at work, and I know for a fact that some of you out there know him -- perhaps even well enough to have his number close at hand. So . . . if he reads this, please find a way to get the number to me. Or, alternatively, if somebody else knows the number reads this, could they, too, please find a way to get the number to me. Thanks. If you cannot figure out a means of communication, then feel free express your confused state in the comments. We'll come up with something, surely.

She Said . . .

I asked a very important question of K. this afternoon . . .

See here for clues as to that question (and her answer).

A Glimpse

I know I promised these sometime last week, but just haven't had the time to make good. There is no such excuse at the moment. My favorite, I think, is the last one.

All in all, we all (the Z. family and I) had quite a time on the highways and byways of Scotland. Neither K. nor I had seen much of Scotland that lay north of Glasgow, so it was nice to feel a bit adventurous for a change. It also felt very good indeed (too good, in fact) to drive again -- even if I was on the 'wrong' side of the road and car. Those of you who have driven with me back in the States, I realize, are cringing at this thought, considering how erratic of a driver I am on the 'right' side of the car and road. A friend of mine, who is typically the worst backseat driver you'll ever have in a car, once told me that he didn't mind me driving, but only because of an uncanny spell of luck I seem to have when behind the wheel. Oncoming cars would magically disappear . . . gaps miraculously widen . . . etc.: the highway was my Red Sea. Thankfully, good fortune must've followed me over the ocean because by the end of the week I'd managed to hit only one curb whilst parking (not bad for me). Heh -- though I suspect my general disdain for the brake pedal took more than a few years off K.'s mom's lifespan. Hmm . . .

A Bit Later Than Anticipated

I know this is extraordinarily late . . . but it is the best I could manage, what with having Katrien's folks over for the week. If you're just now getting ready to enjoy tonight's NCAA championship game, perhaps you'll like to recap what happened last week. In this turbulent world of information -- outgoing and incoming -- sometimes a review is healthy. So, yes, chew on this, our basketball-lovin' guest blogger: he is a mighty fine treat.

* * * * *

Sweet, Elite, and Finality

So, I'm popping Chicken gizzards on the backroads of Indiana, screaming "Villanova" to the cast of the Dan Patrick show as the Showkiller is asking them NCAA trivia -- in this case "The highest seed ever to win the tournament?" (#8 'Nova, in 1985) -- when I realized I probably should put my second weekend and Final Four preview thoughts to paper.

East Rutherford Regional

The only Regional to play to form. Wake gave the #1 seed St. Joes some trouble, but the last undefeated team continued their three game winning streak right in front of Billy Packer. Pitt was rumored to be the team who would come into East Rutherford as the #1 had they won the Big East tournament; they didn't, and they didn't play like they would have made it either.

On Saturday it was St. Joes, in their first Elite 8 since 1981, facing the Oklahoma St. Cowboys. Did I mention I was working? [ed. Say it together, folks: PHOTOLAB.] So all I heard was the news of the lead changing hands three times in the final 10 seconds. The scary result is that Oklahoma State won: scary because in their last Regional appearance St. Joes, then coached by Jim "Please ignore my daughter Dee the horrible sportscaster" Lynam's club, lost in Bloomington to Indiana -- who unless your name is Jimmy Dolan, you are aware that they went on to win the title. Why should OSU winning the title be traumatic? This isn't an irrational hatred like the ones I have for Lute Olsen, Jim Boheim and Roy Williams. This comes from the fact that Sutton still represents what is wrong in college basketball. [ed. It's Eddie's fault that 60% foul shooting is considered decent?] Sure, Memphis St and Tulane paid the death penalty for their transgressions in the 80's, but Sutton not only brought disgrace to Kentucky, he set the example for coaches to follow later: run a dirty program and move on to another job. [ed. Which is our guest blogger's way of saying: "No emphasis on foul-shooting."] This is similar to what John Calipari did at UMass, Jim Harrick did everywhere he went, and the penalties that Tommy Amaker is still overcoming at Michigan for what Steve Fisher allowed to happen. Sutton is worse, though, because he always calls upon the name of his college coach, coach Iba, like he is carrying on the great tradition of basketball. That will get touted during the Final Four, and the Kentucky violations will not be mentioned. Good thing he didn't throw a chair or punch a telephone. [ed. I got lost in the midst of that paragraph. How does all that relate to them playing St. Joseph and St. Joseph once playing Indiana?]

Phoenix Regional

In the land of Jean Gray [ed. Oh man, he didn't just drop an X-Men reference, did he?], one constant of this tournament continued: Maybe Packer was right. Connecticut continued to roll. First Vandy gets crushed, and then UConn shows Alabama no respect at all for knocking out Syracuse, and rolls all over them. [ed. Mmmm, yeah. You know how I like these recaps.] Makes me wonder, though: does that bode well for the Huskies? They have faced no challenge at all in this tournament. Personally, I think that spells disaster heading into San Antonio. There have been no tests, what happens if the game's close in the closing minutes? [ed. The final score will be close?] We don't know how they will handle it, because on the tournament court they haven't had to. [ed. So it spells disaster for UConn because we don't know how they'll handle the pressure? Hmmmm.

St. Louis Regional

The perfect storyline is that Bill Self in his first year leads the Jayhawks to the title. This would, of course, lead me to continue my dogging of Roy Williams. The way they played against UAB, it looked quite possible. The Blazers lose their coach to technicals, and never really got to play defence the way they did against UK. The result is a rout, 100-74.

The second game was about injuries and overcoming. Early in the game BJ Elder has a Nevada player roll on his ankle [ed. That doesn't sound kinky at all! Whatever floats yer boat, Mr. Elder.], and cannot continue. This looks exactly like the opportunity for Cinderella to try on her shoe and continue on to the ball [ed. Oh! Now you're talking!]. But in the second half the Wreck regroup and outscore the Wolfpack to move on to play Sunday. On Sunday, the Tournament-finally-producing-close-games continued, with Tech and the Jayhawks going to OT -- where the Yellow Jackets pull away with the win. They now return to the Final Four for the first time since 1990. That year their "Lethal Weapon 3" came up short to UNLV, who went on to win the tournament. This year they play Oklahoma St. Another omen for the Cowboys?

Atlanta Regional

Friday night's script seemed to be very similar. It was a closer game between X and Texas, but Rick Barnes gets ejected in the closing seconds as his team is knocked out by the Muskies. Thad Matta, whose name on Thursday became linked to the possible opening at Purdue, continued his team's amazing run, with Chalmers and Sato providing the senior leadership on the floor.

It was Chris Douhon playing the Elder-role in the Georgia Dome, as he was still playing injured after hurting his ribs going for a loose ball in the ACC finals. In looking not to shoot but instead distributing the ball (and fighting for rebounds), he pretty much controlled the Blue Devil's offence. The grimace [ed. That one is for an old friend of ours] on his face during his trips to the free throw line showed the pain; but like Wojo and Hurley before him, he fought through the pain to lead his team to victory.

On Sunday, it came down to a tip, as Xavier had opportunities to win but just fell short. It's a game in the early 90's you had the feeling Duke would win. But after close-game loss, like that to Indiana in '02, the Blue Devils seem ripe for an upset. But guess who played a pivotal role? Douhon once again continues to lead the team while injured. And Duke returns again to the Final Four, where they get a rematch of the '99 title game with UConn.

Final Four Prediction

I'm taking Duke over Georgia Tech. Which, though, probably means Eddie Sutton finally wins a title over the Huskies.

A Bone

To reward all who visited while I was gone, I offer to you . . . . Russian Prison Tattoos.

A Little Housecleaning

Couple of items on the blogging agenda, which I may or may not get done today. Especially of note is our eminent guest blogger's NCAA recap. For those of you who are following the tournament only through the convenience of modern blogging technology employed here at Silentio, keep an eye out for week-two coverage later today / early tomorrow. I didn't get our esoteric Hoosier's recap until I was nearly out the door, on my way for a few days driving through the Scottish Highlands -- oh, how lovely that was!

If I feel sufficiently motivated later tonight, and if you're good, I might even post a few pictures from the drive. For the time being, though, I have a series of rejection emails to assess and bemoan, and a host of imminent deadlines to address and delay.

A Little Passion In My Life

Last night I drank up a couple bottles of intestinal fortitude, shelled out the cash pilfered from K.'s checking account, and saw "THE MOVIE": The Passon of the Christ. For the reasons I outlined here, I did not go in with the best of expectations. Nevertheless, I also figured I'd end up appreciating it as a film and a point (one I find rather distasteful) well made. Two hours later, with another much-needed drink in hand, I realized that I had only been half right. The product of a very simple / literal reading of the Gospel's Passion narratives, which I guess was to be expected, this movie that people are raving or ranting about is -- dying Messiah / prophet, possible anti-Semitism notwithstanding -- pretty simplistic. This is, of course, its stroke of (marketing) genius and its most damning feature. To get all highbrow on you here: it is a tabula rasa, a blank slate: whatever you take from the movie, be it racist or religious fervor, you more than likely took it in with you.

"Is the movie anti-Semitic?" they ask. Yeah, probably. Show me a bomb-strapped anti-Semite, and in this movie he'll find a clarion call for the destruction of Israel. Show me somebody waiting for the Rapture while reading this book, and she'll likely stare at you blankely and say she loves the Jews, and that if it wasn't for them killing her Jesus she'd still be stuck in sin -- they're taking one for the team almost as much as He is. In other words, no no no, the movie isn't anti-Semitic at all.

"Did it affect you spiritually?" they ask. This is the far more interesting aspect of the tabula rasa: the faith experience it solicits is as solipsistic as the religious vision that financed and directed it. The Jesus of Christian salvation wasn't evoked so much as he was simply assumed. If you're looking to identify with a Savior's suffering, then you can have at it righteously. In fact, most of the 'Jesus flashbacks' invoke a snapshot of Jesus teaching his disciples (and faithful moviegoers) about the necessity of their suffering on account of him, and the necessity of emulating his servitude in the face of persecution. If, however, you know more about your own suffering than that of Jesus', well, then you're probably provided ample warrant to wonder: what's the purpose this ass-whooping again? The latter question was, near as I could tell, never really answered. Nor was it meant to be so, it seems. The Passion -- it isn't about you, all of you YOUs out there. It's about ME and MY faith (or non-faith) in Christ.

This is what makes the movie such a strange cultural phenomenon: namely, this solipsistic vision is being relayed in an unintentional critique and example of mob justice, be it for execution ("Crucify him!") or for salvation ("He did that for me!?"). The parallel between Jewish mob and Christian congregation is as unseemly as it is stark. The cinematic Jewish mob, crying out of inspired, religious fervor, leering with white-hot, passionate fever, at the self-described Messiah, the Son of Man. The (Christian) audience, turning a movie theatre into a feverish revival, showing up in buses, gazing at their beaten (and yet victorious!!) Christ with passionate awe.

The only rationale I can come up with to explain this brutal parallel is that the film is stain-glass iconography at its most utterly banal -- more grotesque than sublime. In focusing so intently on the icons of physical suffering (i.e. the whips, the nails, the flesh, the blood, etc.) the purpose obviously is to uncover the reality of such suffering. This is what you most commonly hear from those who love the film: "its violent, sure, but it really shows you how it was." Normally followed by: "How can you now not believe??" The REALITY of Jesus and his suffering, however, seems to miss the more poignant -- though far less polemic -- point of the story of the Cross. Is not the more sublime, unspeakable significance of Christ's life and death the perverse humility of this life and blasphemous injustice of this death? To gaze on the icons of suffering, is but to desire, eternally so, the fullness of God-in/as-Christ (and thus the redemption of humanity). The icon, especially that of suffering (eg. sado-masochism), provokes a gaze that never blinks, and a thirst that never is quenched. This is exemplified, I think, by the fact that this film's Jesus (implicitly) must suffer more physical pain than anyone ever has before. His suffering, and thus his endurance, borders on classic docetism.

The point of the Passion narratives, though, seems something quite the opposite. The God who is burdened, who burdens, who abandons, and is abandoned . . . this is the God who, in fact, dies. When we draw our gaze away from the icons of suffering, and instead dare to think the perversion and the blasphemy of a God burdened by life and death, by sin (by self-abandonment), we maybe begin to glimpse the perverse and blasphemous truth that lay behind the Passion's "reality." Wherein the gap that separates God from man is transposed into God Himself; wherein God, as Christ, discovers the limit of his divine omnipotence.

All of this, then, makes me wonder: is the Passion story told and retold, celebrated yearly at least, to keep this God living -- does he live on in the retelling of his story? Or is it, as with the fate of Lenin, one of the twentieth century's most radical saviours, to keep Him, in a sense, from life itself (and thus also from death)?

Better Late Than Never At All

Just in time for tonight's basketball action, our guest blogger has unveiled his recap (a reminder of sorts) of all that happened last weekend. A little foreplay . . . a little playful erotica to prime the pump . . . before the real roundball action starts. Ahem. Anyway. Enjoy.

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Round 2, Day 1

It is a troubled time for the lower seeds as only four have advanced into this second round. Meanwhile the introduction of Barqs-Barqs Binks, the new NCAA / Coca-Cola mascot has been received with little fanfare [ed. You don't say . . .]. Is it just me, or does the fact that Cialis commercials are followed by Hummer commercials does seem to be a little ironic? The only hope for the underdogs is that a man with a bionic eye can play baseball.

And now for what people have waited days (Hi, Pat):

Raleigh, NC

The idea of the pod system, so we're told, was to keep teams closer to home. So why is it, then, that, the #3 NC State goes to Orlando, FL., while Duke (#1) and Wake Forest (#4) get to play here? Action starts with the Blue Devils going against Seton Hall. This is actually a rematch of the 1989 semi-final game. Seton Hall won that game, only then to lose in overtime to Glen Rice, Rumeal Robinson and, the beginning of all of Michigan's infractions, interim coach Steve Fisher. The all-time assist leader in tournament history, Bobby Hurley, would join Duke in 1990's campaign and suffer from diarrhea against Arkansas in the semi-finals [ed. Yes, yes. After sufficient bitching, our guest blogger has persuaded me to point out that he had pointed out the factual error in one of his earlier posts, in which he dates Bobby Hurley's atomic shits to the aforementioned Seton Hall game, but I simply failed to change it. Mea culpa.]. In short, Duke easily disposes of Seton Hall, which means picking them to play against UK in the rematch of the '92 game for the umpteenth time may be right.

Next up, the Demon Deacons get to take on the Jaspers -- and you know that means a paddling. As it turns out, neither team can take much of lead -- that's a paddling [ed. I'm assuming this was supposed to be a pun. If so, I like it. If not, well, then I'm not entirely sure what it means, short of (given our guest blogger's penchant for lusty prose) this]. If only teams in this tournament could hit free throws, they would win it all -- so that's most definitely a paddling [ed. Now I remember. See second quote down on the link]. But in the end Wake advances, and Manhattan is left with their beard stuck in the pencil sharpener as Abe Simpson looks on [ed. I need to learn to read the full paragraphs before I begin commenting].

Seattle, WA

Gonzaga has gone from the Cinderella team of the last few years, to a #2 seed. This is the answer to, I guess, to all those accusations of anti-West Coast bias. When Duke was ranked #1 and Stanford was undefeated, it was because all East Coast sportswriters weren't awake to the West Coast teams. The upshot: Gonzaga got high in the ratings [ed. Spoiler Alert: Based on this game, they also got on the ratings -- flunky potheads up there in the Northwest, ya know] based on non-conference schedule and stayed there. Even though I believe any team (allegedly) coached by Mike Davis could even succeed in the West Coast Conference. Not today, though, as the Nevada Wolfpack devour the Zags. The question of bias may never be raised again.

And, appropriately, one game later Stanford's Mike Montgomery coaches the first #1 seed to fall. Should be noted that according to the RPI the toughest schedule in America this year belonged to the Crimson Tide [ed. And if you don't believe that, Wimp Sanderson'll come over there 'n punch ya in the face]. So maybe it is better to be in the middle of the pack in the SEC than to dominate a weak PAC-10.

Buffalo, NY

With Stanford already gone, St. Joseph looks like they might be next as Texas Tech jumps out to a quick lead. Could lightning possibly be striking twice? [ed. Quite.] Well, maybe not, since Phil Martelli, who looks a lot like Harvey Pekar, quickly coaches his team back to a sustainable lead; only for -- you guessed it -- the Red Raiders of Texas Tech to get the lead late in the second half. Honestly, you can almost write the exact same storyline for most of the games in this tournament. This one, however, unlike in Seattle played to form, as the #1 team survives. Martelli speaks with respect towards Coach Knight and his compliment toward the St. Joe's program [ed. Notice, however, that Martelli went out of his way not to compliment Knight. He knows where that would lead]. He also reminds the world that Billy Packer is a jackass.

Though it must be said, the team Packer thought deserved the number #1 seed, UConn, dominated DePaul in such a way that the only real news brought out of this game was the fact that Jim Calhoun spent the second half in the locker room sick. If Bobby Hurley be an omen [ed. And he certainly plays the role well], that may mean UConn will lose in the next round.

Denver, CO

Oh, and lo and behold, Jackass himself is here to call the games with Jim Nance. I have noticed one thing that normally I don't see, due to my Packer-hatred, Jim Nance gets excited over almost every little thing that happens in the game. Jim has been calling on the number one team for CBS since Brent Musberger was told the day of the '90 finals in this same town of Denver that he was calling his last game. But the reality is, Nance's skills as a broadcaster, now in his fourteenth tournament, has only gotten worse.

Jim Boeheim vs. Gary Williams. The '03 Champs vs. the '02 champs. [ed. Or, if you're like me and don't know names too well and didn't see the tournament the last couple of years, Syracuse vs. Maryland]. The two guys who have gotten the monkey off their back [ed. I've read that a few times now, and each time it makes me laugh. Reminds me of the final episode of The Office where Tim asks (homophobic) Gareth: 'So if you're in a foxhole, and one of your army mates lands on top of you when he dives into the foxhole, would you pull him off' 'Of course.' 'So, yes, you would pull your mate off?' 'Oh yeah, in a heartbeat.']. And, yet, two guys who also still lucked into it. I mean, really, they coached against Mike Davis and Roy Williams -- it's not exactly John Wooden you're dealing with [ed. Never let it be said that our guest blogger doesn't give credit where credit is due]. The winners pack their white jerseys since they no longer have to worry about the Cardinal. And in a game where neither team seems to want to win, the greater evil prevails. That's right, the 73-snake to Bob Knights 74-mongoose prevails [ed. Whaaaaa?], with the Orange Men moving on to face Alabama.

And speaking of my boy Roy, he ends his time in the competition on Day 3. In the greatest upset of the tournament, Lyle Mouton and Texas' defeat of the Tar Heels lasts until after 11 o'clock EST, which means that after three days of advertising, Century City does not air, and I am left to wonder what ever happened to the Bionic-eyed playing baseball player? Did he know Barry Bonds' trainer? Will he end up with the Yankees, just so they can screw with the Red Sox? Was he a Reds player, traded because he wouldn't work for Chiquita bananas? [ed. Did he pull off the monkey on his back?]

Round 2, Day 2

We begin today's action in Texas. I know there were no games played there, but thanks to my significant other that's where I spent the first two hours of the day. She'd decided to put a DVD in just to get back at me for sitting at home all night Thursday and all day Friday, so I got to watch Second Hand Lions, the story of how exactly Michael Caine and Robert Duvall could (a) be brothers, (b) have a nephew as annoying as "I see dead people" boy and (c) not explain where they'd hidden their money and how they got it. I understand why this film was snubbed by the Academy, but the performance by Robert Duvall is outstanding. The question of who is the greatest actor of the post-contract era normally involves names like Pacino and DeNiro. But clearly Tom Hagen may be the better actor of either Corleone. Nicholson? I'll take "Smells like victory" over "Can't handle the truth." Boo Radly, the Great Santini, Ned Peppers, the Apostle, Karl Childer's father, the man smart enough to stay away from Godfather III. The list goes on . . . [ed. Eh. Let's not forget John Q, The 6th Day, Gone in Sixty Seconds, and an utterly dire version of A Handmaid's Tale].

Orlando, FL

That said, I'm sad to say I missed a great moment in Queen City sports history: Xavier never loses composure and defeats the #2 seed Bulldogs of Miss. St. An annoying bracket-news aside: the guy leading our pool at work picked this correctly. His reason was that a Musketeer could beat a Rebel. That's right, he didn't have the right school when he filled out his bracket. This is the same guy who incorrectly picked Dayton over DePaul out of loyalty to former IU assistant Joby Wright -- even though Wright coached at Miami, OH and Wyoming, not Dayton. Proof once again that blind knowledge may be all that it takes to win the pool. Xavier goes on to a Sweet 16 rematch of their '90 tournament loss to Texas.

So with one SEC team down and the Wolfpack of Nevada already winning, clearly it should be NC State over Vandy. Or not. Even without Lionel Richie the Commodores 64 make Orlando the site where the lower seeds sweep. Vandy moves on to play UConn and to join 'Bama in Phoenix.

Kansas City, KS

In Kansas City, Oklahoma St and Kansas are that the Big Twelve will fare better than the SEC in Orlando. At this point, though, two #2s and two #4s are already gone. Be that as it may, Rock Chalk Jayhawk destroys another Cinderella, ending Pacific's winning streak. In the second game, the Cowboys of Oklahoma St. prove why Lions may live in Big Twelve territory, but Tigers don't. With that loss Don't Call Us Memphis State leave it to UC and UAB to defend C-USA's place in the tournament..

Milwaukee, WI

The story of Day four is that one conference has two teams playing at each site. In Wisconsin, the Big East has Boston College taking on Georgia Tech in a #6-#3 match-up, and Pitt takes on home-state favorite Wisconsin in the other #3-#6 match-up. In the first game, Tech survives a late run by BC to go to St. Louis as the highest seed and face Nevada.

On Friday night Wisconsin looked dead, came back and won going away. This time around, Pitt gets a decent lead, Wisconsin comes back, and at this point it looks like my Final Four was still safe. And then, of course, Pitt did what it also did a year ago -- it eliminated a Big Ten team on the way to the Sweet Sixteen. Side note: they ended up losing that game to Marquette, whose floor on which they just beat Wisconsin. Interesting role reversal here. If Pitt makes it to the Final Four, like Marquette did last year, we could potentially repeat the 2003 Final Four. If they make it, Pitt (instead of Marquette) would be facing Kansas; and it's certainly not beyond the realm of possibility that Texas and Syracuse might meet again in this year's semi-finals. [ed. So, um, it's the 'same' four teams playing each other, minus the fact one of the teams is now another team? Am I following that right?] Just an odd little fact to keep in mind. [ed. Quite.]

Columbus, OH

Since the days of Michael Redd and Sconnie Penn leaving the Buckeyes, Columbus has known all about upset basketball. The Fighting Illini, though, prove that with UC playing, it may not really be an upset. The Bearcats are absolutely embarrassed in the opening game. Tony Bobbitt's career comes to an end, and so does Bob Huggins' complaining for yet another season.

With UC out, the Blazers of UAB are the lone representative of C-USA. Their task: the Wildcats of UK. They felt more than up to the challenge, blowing this game open and leading by double digits. The rest seemed to be following according to this tournament's script. The 'Cats came back to not only tie but take the lead. We know the story by now, right? The #1 comes back from adversity and closes out the game and talks about how they give the Blazers all the credit. Just one problem, UAB didn't read the script [ed. They get to 'reading' in the junior year of college down there at UAB]. For the final minutes the teams trade baskets. UAB looks to have blundered big time when they foul UK's three-point shooter, which has happened more often in this tournament then it should, but still have the two-point lead with seconds left. Now the reality of games like this is that the Blazers have lost guys to fouls, and getting the tie could probably deflate them and let UK take the win. An example of this is the second-round Michigan-UCLA game from '93, where the Wolverines came back from twenty down to take the honey from the Bruins pot [ed. And they didn't even leave their phone number afterward!!]. Anyway, so with their final possession UK's Hawkins drives and gets fouled like so many others in the tournament? Nope. Lays up it uncontested? Nope. Kicks out to Fitch, who shoots a three on a pick and roll, watches it miss, sees the rebound turn into a volleyball tip session 'till UAB watches the clock expire and all across the country people wad up there brackets in disgust? BINGO.

The Bright Side

The nice thing about a renewed fundamentalist fervor is that satire and parody usually returns with a vengeance.

Coming back soon to a theater near you -- a controversial film about a Jewish guy from Nazareth who is worshiped as the Messiah and crucified by the Romans.

No, it's not Mel Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ." It's Monty Python's "Life of Brian."

Inspired by the runaway success -- and public furor -- over Gibson's portrayal of the last 12 hours in the life of Jesus, the creators behind the 1979 biblical satire about an anti-Roman activist who spends his life being mistaken for a prophet are planning a 25th anniversary re-release next month.

"Always Look on the Bright Side of Life," indeed.

More Porridge, Please

With just about anything there comes a point at which you simply stop caring. At that point, or somewhere 'round about, you begin to stop taking things all that seriously. For you Americans out there, this is the point at which the British phrase 'taking the piss' becomes appropriate. Case in point, my most recent letter requesting departmental funding:

To whom it may concern:

The time I have spent studying within the Theology and Religious Studies Department has been, without any hint of hesitation or exaggeration, the best of my life. It has rarely been easy and never completely what I expected. And yet, as in most good things, one's efforts and expectations must often be stretched if one is to accomplish much of anything. This has proven true not only of my new, expatriate life in Scotland, wherein I have learned the importance of water with whisky, of not asking the ingredients of haggis, and of counting one's change; nor simply of my research into the middle ground of theology, philosophy, and literature, where, if my thesis is to believed, confession meets culture in an engagement from which neither can be the same again. On a much more practical level, though, for better or worse, I have also been stretched to a financial breaking point.

For better, I have learned the value of a dollar (and a pound), as well as the fine art of devising and sticking to a tight budget. For worse, much worse, I'm afraid, I have also learned the pathology of stress gastrisis / ulcers. My story of student loans and credit card debt is not uncommon for the international student, as undoubtedly attested to by the other letters seeking similar funding, so I do not bring up my own now to break any hearts. However, as Aristotle tells us, any story worth being called true, true enough to be believed anyway (even when it, apropos of religious studies, is, for want of a better word, a lie) deserves to be told and retold again. In other words, mine but joins the litany of palms (once again) requesting the alms from a purse we each know to be tight.

[. . .]

The Department of Theology and Religious Studies has been very good and gracious to me. The staff has been tolerant of my penchant for self-indulgent esotericism, and the students a community of productive criticism and community. Thankfully, the invisible, ethereal wind of administrative forces behind the scenes have in years past been both, to a degree fitting of their divine subject, sympathetic and benevolent to how much all an international education costs these days. With this in mind, this being, as it were, the sacrifice in which the devotee's only profit is the sustained consistency and general omnipotence of that to which he sacrifices, I request (but one final time) to be considered for departmental funding for 2004/05.

Best.

A Bit of Heresy To Start Your Day; or, Another Way To Make Your Mother Proud

The gap that separates Gnosticism from Christianity concerns the basic question of "who is responsible for the origin of death":

If you can accept God who coexists with death camps, schizophrenia, and AIDS, yet remains all-powerful and somehow benign, then you have faith . . . . If you know yourself as having an affinity with the alien, or stranger God, cut off from this world, then you are a Gnostic. (H. Bloom [1996], 252)

These, then, are the minimal coordinates of Gnosticism: each human being has deep in himself a divine spark which unites him with the Supreme Good; in our daily existence, we are unaware of this spark, since we are kept ignorant by being caught in the inertia of the material reality. How does such a view relate to Christianity proper? Is it that Christ had to sacrifice himself in order to pay for the sins of His Father who created such an imperfect world? Perhaps, this Gnostic Divinity, the evil Creator of our material world, is the clue of the relationship between Judaism and Christianity, the "vanishing mediator" repressed by both of them: the Mosaic figure of the severe God of Commandments is a fake whose mighty apparition is here to conceal the fact that we are dealing with a confused idiot who botched up the job of creation; in a displaced way, Christianity then acknowledges this fact (Christ dies in order to remeed his father in the eyes of humanity).

Along the same lines, the Cathars, the Christian heresy par excellence, posited two opposed diviniites: on the one hand, the infinitely good God who, however, is strangely impotent, unable to CREATE anything; on the other hand, the Creator of our material universe who is n one other than the Devil himself (identical to the God of the Old Testament) -- the visible, tangible world in its entirety is a diabolical phenomenon, a manifestaton of Evil. The Devil is able to create, but is a sterile creator; this sterility is confirmed by the fact that the Devil succeeded in producing a wretched universe in which, despite all his efforts, he never contrived anything lasting. Man is thus a divided creature: as an entity of flesh and blood, he is a creation of the Devil. However, the Devil was not able to create spiritual Life, so he was supposed to have asked the good God for help; in his bounty, God agreed to assist the Devil, this depressingly sterile creator, by breathing a soul into the body of lifeless clay. The Devil succeeded in perverting this spiritual flame by causing the Fall, i.e. by drawing the first couple into the carnal union which consummated their position as the creatures of matter.

Why did the Church react in such a violent way to this Gnostic narrative? Not because of the Cathars' radical Otherness (the dualist belief in the Devil as the counter-agent to the good God; the condemnation of every procreation and fornication, i.e. disgust at Life in its cycle of generation and corruption), but because these "strange" beliefs which seemed so shocking to the Catholic orthodoxy "were precisely those that had the appearance of stemming logically from orthodox contemporary doctrine. That was why they were considered so dangerous" (Z. Oldenbourg [1998], 39). Was the Catharist dualism not simply a consequent development of the Catholic belief in the Devil? Was the Catharist rejection of fornication also the consequence of the Catholic notion that concupiscence is inherently "dirty," and has merely to be tolerated within the confines of marriage, so that marriage is ultimately a compromise with human weakness?: In short, what the Cathars offered was the inherent transgression of the official Catholic dogma, its disavowed logical conclusion. And, perhaps, this allows us to propose a more general definition of what heresy is: in order for an ideological edifice to occupy the hegemonic place and legitimize the existing power relations, it HAS to compromise its founding radical message -- and the ultimate "heretics" are simply those who reject this compromise, sticking to the original message. (Recall the fate of Saint Francis: by insisting on the vow of poverty of the true Christian, by refusing integration into the existing social edifice, he came very close to being excommunicated -- he was embraced by the Church only after the necessary "rearrangements" were made, which flattened this edge that posed a threat to the existing feudal relations.)

And thus begins the first chapter to Slavoj Zizek's On Belief. It is not something I readily recommend for those of you who either don't have a lot of time (it is a short book, but requires some background reading / Googling to really appreciate it) or simply don't have a lot of time for "heretical" philosophies / theologies like those of Zizek. If, however, you do have time, and you are drawn to (or appalled by) heretical notions of what is real, what is right, and what is religious (i.e., like another Silentio), then I cannot recommend it enough.

Ongoes the Saga: A Basketball Watcher's Tale

Round 1, Day 2

Clark Kellogg says today is going to be upset day. And I already am. After working a twelve hour shift, then watching eight hours of games on tape after avoiding all scores, and submitting my pithy comments prior to today's action my beloved editor tells me just round recap this year and I'll be edited. No one wants to read long posts on this blog. Yeah, Pascal Plays Celebrity Poker showed us that. Thanks, B. When you come back stateside with your compassion and appreciation of the work done, you got upper management in large corporate America written all over you. [ed. Heh. You wanna bore people, you start your own blog. I do it plenty well here on my own.]

(Click here for more.)

For the Sports Fan

He's back, friends and neighbors. It is, as those of you in the States well know, March Madness. Some habits die very hard, including this one . . . Please join me in welcoming, once again, Silentio's own chief analyst of all things basketball for his round-the-clock (though, because I'm really bad about this thing, normally belatedly posted) coverage of this year's NCAA tournament. For those of you who care little to nothing about basketball, bear with me -- I've hidden in the links a few goodies for you, too.

* * * * * * * *

It's that time again. Madness has arrived! This year things are a little different. For those of you keeping score at home, I'm still at the photo lab, for another 8 days at least, until my company removes it and offers me the opportunity to run a gas station or interview for the store management-training program. [ed.: Movin' on up, it seems.] The B&W TV is nowhere to be found; instead games played while I'm working will be taped and watched later. And the Hoosiers, well, at 14-15 they're stuck at home with the worst record since 1969-70, two seasons before Bob Knight started. It doesn't get much better for the Hoosier state in general, what with Valparaiso being our only representative (out of a possible ten!!) in the field of 64. [ed. Cheer up, little buddy, you'll forever have Dan Quayle and Jesus on your side.]

So lets get on to what you came for. What, do you mean you don't come to this site for some guest editorial about basketball? B. actually informed me that he has received some Google traffic thanks to the phrase "Gene Keady combover" from last year's diatribes. [ed. To be fair, I probably got as many hits for the phrases "I love anal sex" and "B. is a pretentious bore".]

Round One, Day 1

Lehigh vs. Florida A&M. Oh boy . . . I'm already off to an 0-1 start, as this one was a complete rout by A&M. For those of you without a bracket handy, they get to face UK -- in the first of two games UK simply must win if Ashley Judd is to get to attend any games this year, due to her Broadway commitments that continue through this weekend. [ed. Is it just me, or is it really, really scary that he knows this bit of information?]

This whole pod system is still something to question. Pitt is #3 and their reward is playing Wisconsin in the second round in Milwaukee? Air Force (#11) plays UNC (#6) in Denver because that somehow is supposed to benefit Texas (#3). A more obvious gripe, though, is about this whole thing about replacing the geographical name of each region with the name of the host city. Is this so Billy Packer, ten years from now, can say that no #6 seed out of "the Orlando pod and Phoenix regional" has ever made a Final Four? [ed. In ten years, Billy Packer's most erudite observation is bound to be 'Applesauce . . . goood.']

Man, CBS has sold just about everything to someone. The "Dasani side court camera," the "Cingular Trivia Question," the "Sprite Re-Mix Bill Raferty 'Team X has come out in the man to man,'" and, I assume, the "Diet Coke w/ Lime One Shining Moment."

But this year I don't want to just make smart aleck -- I would use other words but what if the FCC decides to fine blogs? -- comments, I want to teach. [ed. Fuck that, dude.] So lets get on with it.

(Click here^* to continue.)


^* Yes, I only recently learned how to do this . . . would it not have been so much better to have learned it prior to last week's round of posts????

Rejected!!!!

I wouldn't ordinarily share my shame with the world, but I was especially tickled by this one. A few months ago, I sent off a very old essay of mine to the Journal of the American Academy of Religion, in hopes that it might find a publishing home. Alas, it was not meant to be. Not even close!

This essay strikes me as exhibiting the worse [sic] sort of postmodern theological jargon. Way too many sentences and paragraphs are just indecipherable, with the apparent intention to make it sound profound. There are some interesting nuggets about Las Vegas, but these are just facts that have little do with the essay's aim. The author started with an interesting idea in terms of connecting the wager of Pascal and the wager of a gambler in Las Vegas, but the actual exposition ends up making both sides of the equation less clear, rather than more. I wouldn't encourage its revision . . . though perhaps its translation into English! [my emphasis]

Hee. I like that last line.

But, c'mon! Postmodern!! Ugh! Spat! Glurghghg! Hardly. I just re-read the paper in question, and I honestly do not get the criticism about its indeciperability. It's freakin' philosophical theology! The problem in the past, in my estimation, is that this stuff was entirely too clear, too pedantic . . . too damn interpretively fascist! The problem in the present, so it seems, is that I don't lay down the interpretive grid for my papers, which will in turn function as their yellow brick road of final determinate meaning. I have definite reasons for doing this; namely, this ain't science. Then again, the problem could be as simple as: I no rite clearsome.

I've always thought this might prove to be my academic undoing; or at least I'd get roughed up enough prior to the submission of my thesis that I'd learn from my mistakes and make the necessary changes. We shall see.

Who Knew?

It turns out that the world of cultural studies / critical theory isn't nearly as small and insulated as I thought -- doing it here in Britian, one begins to sense this from time to time. For an example, but, more probably more important for you, for some really good blogging, check out the University of Washington's own Steven Shaviro.

Know Your Enemy

Via Tbogg, I've been introduced to Dr. Paul Cameron, founder of the Family Research Institute and ISIS, the Institute for the Scientific Investigation of Sexuality. When Cameron isn't calling for the quarantining of gays to prevent the spread of AIDS, his organizations are, he explains, 'kind of the wellspring of most of the statistics about the gay lifestyle', he explains -- which means, of course, he's one of the nutjobs out there feeding the homophobic fundamentalist flames of Rev. Fred 'AIDS CURES FAGS' Phelps, the Family Research Council, the Christian Coalition, and Exodus ministries with their statistics and research. His rationale? Well, . . .

Like many of his allies, Cameron believes that, if left unchecked, homosexuality will destroy America like God did Sodom. “Untrammeled homosexuality can take over and destroy a social system,” says Cameron. “If you isolate sexuality as something solely for one’s own personal amusement, and all you want is the most satisfying orgasm you can get- and that is what homosexuality seems to be-then homosexuality seems too powerful to resist. The evidence is that men do a better job on men and women on women, if all you are looking for is orgasm.” So powerful is the allure of gays, Cameron believes, that if society approves that gay people, more and more heterosexuals will be inexorably drawn into homosexuality. “I’m convinced that lesbians are particularly good seducers,” says Cameron. “People in homosexuality are incredibly evangelical,” he adds, sounding evangelical himself. “It’s pure sexuality. It’s almost like pure heroin. It’s such a rush. They are committed in almost a religious way. And they’ll take enormous risks, do anything.” He says that for married men and women, gay sex would be irresistible. “Martial sex tends toward the boring end,” he points out. “Generally, it doesn’t deliver the kind of sheer sexual pleasure that homosexual sex does” So, Cameron believes, within a few generations homosexuality would be come the dominant form of sexual behavior.

Who knew the secret gay agenda was so . . . enticing!!!

Anyway, here's the link to the full article. It's a few years old, but considering the medievalism of the position, this seems especially fitting.

That Time of the Year

It's that time of the year again for me, in which I churn out two or three paper proposals for an array of international academic conferences, all of which, if tradition holds, will be kindly refused. This year's contestants are entitled (1) 'On Theological Ends: Aesthetic Freedom and Creative Necessity' and (2) 'Raising High the Roofbeams: Theology Meets Actor-Network Theory'. Wish them well, as they enter the bad bad world.

Phrase of the Day

'Dingbat Kabuki'. Puts the White House's last week or so in precious perspective, I think.

A First

There is a first time for everything, I guess. This truism extends even to linking to inexplicably conservative Andrew Sullivan. His thoughts on The Passion, upon seeing it, though, seem in line with my own, having not seen it.

Truth In Humor

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine sent an email that he undoubtedly received as a foreward -- fortunately, he was kind enough to drop the FW: tag, and at least pretend it was something he put a little more thought in that one click of his mouse -- that went something like this:

Do you fancy working for a company that has a little more than 500 employees and has the following statistics?:

• 29 have been accused of spousal abuse

• 7 have been arrested for fraud

• 19 have been accused of writing bad checks

• 117 have directly or indirectly bankrupted at least 2 businesses

• 3 have done time for assault

• 71 cannot get a credit card due to bad credit

• 14 have been arrested on drug-related charges

• 8 have been arrested for shoplifting

• 21 are currently defendants in lawsuits

• 84 have been arrested for drunk driving in the last year

Can you guess which organization this is?

It's the 535 members of the United States Congress. The same group that cranks out hundreds of new laws each year designed to keep the rest of us in line.

Har har. Funny enough, I suppose. Ah, but the true punchline came home this morning while reading the New York Times.

Senators' Stock Beat the Market By 12 Percent

US senators' personal stock portfolios outperformed the market by an average of 12 per cent a year in the five years to 1998, according to a new study.

"The results clearly support the notion that members of the Senate trade with a substantial informational advantage over ordinary investors," says the author of the report, Professor Alan Ziobrowski of the Robinson College of Business at Georgia State University.

[. . .]

"The results suggest that senators knew when to buy their common stocks and when to sell."

First-time Senators did especially well, with their stocks outperforming by 20 per cent a year on average - a result that very few professional fund managers would be able to achieve.

[. . .]

A separate study in 2000, covering 66,465 US households from 1991 to 1996 showed that the average household's portfolio underperformed the market by 1.44 per cent a year, on average. Corporate insiders (defined as senior executives) usually outperform by about 5 per cent.

The Ziobrowski study notes that the politicians' timing of transactions is uncanny. Most stocks bought by senators had shown little movement before the purchase. But after the stock was bought, it outperformed the market by 28.6 per cent on average in the following calender year.

Returns on sell transactions are equally intriguing. Stocks sold by senators performed in line with the market the year following the sale.

When adjusted by the size of stocks, the total portfolio returns outperformed by 12 per cent a year on average. The study used a total market index as the benchmark for comparison.

Har Har Har.... ah, the sweet sting of humor.

Fame! I'm Gonna Live Forever!

Look, Ma, I'm famous!

Inevitable, but Infuriating Nevertheless

By now everybody's undoubtedly heard that Bush has finally and officially come out in full support of a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage. How in the world do Republicans think they're on the correct side of this particular issue? Do they really and truly think that the test of time is going to prove them right? Likely not -- since political expediency seems to be the name of the game these days.

For a long time I was totally fine with homosexuals civil unions, but only on the condition that the State let go of the 'marriage' concept altogether. Which is to say, that all couples, hetero- or homo-, when wed, were officially considered a civil union; and that 'marriage' would be afforded its sanctified position outside the realm of simple legality (i.e., for instance, in a church, mosque, or any secular equivalent that one might wish). Realizing, of course, that this would never happen in America, because of its undying love of half-arsed theocracy, I quickly decided that the 'compromise' of letting homosexuals have civil unions, while heterosexuals have marriages, was a pretty egregious class system. All the same, I was willing to live with it, thinking that it might be a step in the right direction -- i.e., that when enough people see that (a) homosexuals can love their partners just as much, if not more, than any heterosexual can, or (b) that their congregations will not be legally required to wed homosexuals, the reason for the civil union / marriage distinction would be mooted entirely. With Bush tossing his hat into the fray, though, especially with this amendment being the one on the table, any hope of even a resigned compromise is out the window. Make no mistake, the Federal Marriage Amendment is a not-too-subtle offensive, and not simply a defense of marriage's so-called sanctity. (As is made pretty clear by Yale Law professor Jack Balkin.)

Whether the Democrats like it or not, this issue will not go away by November. My fear is that Kerry / Edwards / whomever will continue their mealymouthed support of civil unions, in hopes of holding the rabid Right at bay for a while, and in the process lose a vital percentage of their progressive-left vote (again) to this guy.

UPDATE: Thankully, there are a few people, like Nick Confessore, who, unlike me, may be able to see the forest for the trees in this whole mess. I hope he's right on this one.

Relating to a Conversation...

Contrary to the standard idealist argument that conceives ugliness as the defective mode of beauty, as its distortion, one should assert the essential primacy of ugliness: it is beauty that is a kind of defense against the Ugly in its repulsive existence -- or, rather, against existence itself, since, as we shall see, what is ugly is ultimately the brutal fact of existence (of the real) as such.

The ugly object is an object that is in the wrong place, that "shouldn't be there." This does not mean that the ugly object is no longer ugly the moment we relocate it to its proper place; rather, an ugly object is "in itself" out of place, on account of the distorted balance bertween its "representations" (the symbolic features we perceive) and "existence" -- being ugly, out of place, is the excess of existence over representation. Ugliness thus . . . designates an object that is in a way "larger than itself," whose existence is larger than its representation. The presupposition of of ugliness is therefore a gap between an object and the space it occupies, or -- to make the point in a different way -- between the outside (surface) of an object (captured by its representation) and its inside (formless stuff). In the case of beauty, we have in both cases a perfect symmetry, while in the case of ugliness, the inside of an object somehow is (appears) larger than the outside of its surface representation (like the uncanny buildings in Kafka's novels that, once we enter them, appear much more voluminous than they seemed from the outside).

Another way to put it is to say that what makes an object "out of place" is that it is too close to me, like the Statue of Liberty in Hitchcock's Foreign Correspondent: seen from extreme proximity, it loses its dignity and acquires disgusting, obscene features. In courtly love, the figure of die Frau-Welt obeys the same logic: she appears beautiful from the proper distance, but the moment the poet or the knight serving her approaches too close to her, she turns to him her other, reverse side, and what was previously the semblance of a fascinating beauty is suddenly revealed as putrefied flesh, crawling snakes and worms, the disgusting substance of life, as in the films of David Lynch where an object turns disgusting when the camera gets too close to it. The gap that separates beauty from ugliness is thus the very gap that separates reality from the Real: the kernel of reality is horror, horror of the Real, and what constitutes reality is the minimum of idealization the subject needs in order to be able to sustain the Real. Another way to make the same point is to define ugliness as the excess of stuff that penetrates through the pores in the surface, from science fiction aliens whose liquid materiality overwhelms their surface (see the evil alien in Terminator 2 or, of course, the alien from Alien itself), to the films of David Lynch where (exemplarily in Dune) the raw flesh beneath the surface threatens to emerge. . . .

In the case of beauty, the outside of a thing -- its surface -- encloses, overcoats, its interior; whereas in the case of ugliness, this proportionality is perturbed by the excess of the interior stuff that threatens to overwhelm and engulf the subject. This opens up the space for the opposite excess, that of something that is not there and should be, like the missing nose that makes the "phantom of the opera" so ugly. Here, we have the case of a lack that also functions as an excess, the excess of a ghostly, spectral materiality in search of a "proper," "real" body. Ghosts and vampires are shadowy forms in desperate search for the life substance (blood) in us, actually existing humans. The excess of stuff is thus strictly correlative to the excess of spectral form: it was already [Gilles] Deleuze who pointed out how the "place without an object" is sustained by an "object lacking its proper place" -- it is not possible for the two lacks to cancel each other out. What we have here are the two aspects of the real: existence without properties and an object with properties without existence. [my emphasis] Suffice it to recall the well-known scene from Terry Gilliam's Brazil in which, in a high-class restaurant, the waiter recommends to his customers the best offers from the daily menu ("Today, our tournedo is really special!"), yet what the customers get on making their choice is a dazzling color photo of the meal on a stand above the plate, and on the plate itself, a loathsome excremental lump: this split between the image of the food and the real of its formless remainder exemplifies perfectly the two modes of ugliness, the ghostlike substanceless appearance ("representation without existence") and the raw stuff of the real ("existence without appearance").

One should not underestimate the weight of this gap that separates the "ugly" Real from the fully formed objects in "reality": [Jacques] Lacan's fundamental thesis is that a minimum of "idealization", of the interposition of fantasmatic frame by means of which the subject assumes a distance vis-a-vis the Real, is constitutive of our sense of reality -- "reality" occurs insofar as it is not (it does not come) "too close." Today, one likes to evoke our loss of contact with the authentic reality of external (as well as our internal) nature -- we are so accustomed to aseptic, pasteurized milk that milk direct from a cow is unpleasant. This "true milk" necessarily strikes us as too dense, disgusting, undrinkable . . .

-- Slavoj Zizek, 'The Abyss of Freedom', p. 21-23

Foiled Again

On Sunday night K. and I were roaming around Glasgow, to and fro, from the Tall Ship to the Necropolis did we go. On our way back, we ran into somebody who undoubtedly has read these. K., because she is far more kind and tolerant than I, accepted one of his pamphlets, entitled Frequently Asked Questions In the Glasgow City Centre, but then promptly put it in my jacket pocket upon walking away. I finally read it this afternoon while eating lunch:

(1) Who Made God?

Would you expect a dog to buy and read a daily newspaper? No! [Yes, the exclamation point was his.] That is not because a newspaper cannot be understood, but because it is beyond a dog's understanding.

In like manner, God is bigger than anything a mere human can grasp. If I could understand Him, He would not be God and I would not be a man!

God had no beginning and will never end. Everything we know begins and ends, but God is greater than that. He is everlasting. God's word to us, the Bible, teaches that God is absolutely holy, with no sin in Him at all. He is just, and loving. He has all power. He is everywhere. He knows everything, and never changes.

God is creator of all things. All design has a designer; behind everything made, there will be a maker; creation must have a creator. This is God. Because He is our maker; we are responsible to Him. He knows what is best for us.

Is it just me, or is this God, the one described here if nothing else, which 'no mere human can grasp', is really quite graspable after all, maybe even a little too much so? I understand the notion of the Bible as 'revelation', but nobody has yet adequately to explain to me how we, again as 'mere humans', can deal with the implications of or interpret said revelation. That is, if it, the revelation, is supposed to point toward something beyond our feeble, consciousness-laden mushy minds, can we really articulate what the revelation is said to reveal?

I was all prepared to inquire about this, in hopes that I might rehearse the section of my thesis on Fichte's notion of Anstoss -- i.e., the unlimited activity of the I's self-reflection via the not-I -- and Schelling's exploration of Freedom. Namely -- how does it happen that God pronounces the Word and thereby discloses himself, appears to himself? Which is to say, how does the In-Itself Freedom of God split from itself, in such a way to be able to identify itself as 'itself'; how does it acquire a distance toward itself and thus clear the space in which it can appear (to itself)?

So, yeah, I was all prepared to go on about this; but, as it was, K. was hungry. Silly woman.

'Mememormee, mememormee . . .'

BEWARE THESE HOOLIGANS TWO.

That's More Like It

Consider this a follow-up to my previous post.

Better Things To Do With $10, Isn't There?

Recently I was asked for an opinion on Mel Gibson's sequel to Braveheart (okay, maybe not), The Passion of Christ. More specifically: 'Do you think it will be anti-Semitic?' My reply did not directly answer the question, mostly because I'm a very poor listener; but, in hindsight, I think it might have done so pretty concisely. My basic response was, and is:

Does the world, Christian or otherwise, really need another literal re-telling of Jesus' death, as depicted in the Gospels?

I mean, really, hasn't this story been done to death already?

I've nothing against religious liturgy, or even believing in the salvific or symbolic importance of Jesus' death, but prattling on about the historical details of such a death at some point borders on a weird, kind of sick voyeurism. The obvious objection to this is that artists have for centuries depicted the passion narratives, and yet I've not yet whined about any of them. The difference is, at least for the best art, is that the literal details themselves are not, in the end, the point. One gets the impression, in fact, that they could have been painted, in full faith, without any knowledge of such details at all. They are usually iconic, sometimes ironically, inasmuch as they beckon an infinite gaze that can never nail things down (pun intended).

I do not get the impression this is the intention of Gibson's film, any more than it was for DeMille's King of Kings, Zeffirelli's Jesus of Nazareth, or Lean and Steven's The Greatest Story Ever Told. There's nothing wrong with something not being 'artistic' (i.e., in the way that I privileged above), but purveyors of historical-minded Christological kitsch should not be too surprised or appalled to find it branded as anti-Semitic. Quite simply, it is difficult to tell the story, as depicted in the Gospels, without putting some Jews in a very bad light. By the time the Johannine community was reading the Gospel of John, they've probably been thrown out of the Temple (and thus out of Judaism as such) and, thus were no longer protected from Roman edicts against unsanctioned religions. One might be a little surprised, I suppose, if a little animosity wasn't harbored and comeuppance foreseen. However, in light of the present situation, with history having reversed the roles on several occasions, in dramatically violent sweeps, one would be even more surprised if many contemporary readers did not anachronistically uncover a fair bit of anti-Semitism. Expecting these latter readers to simply 'return to the original context' is the near equivalent of telling victims of trauma to 'forgive and forget'.

I'm not saying the Passion narratives are necessarily anti-Semitic, but neither am I saying that they ought not be read as such. The burden is on the purveyors and guardians of the narratives to find a way to affirm their value in light of their historical abuse. Which is why I ask again:

Does the world, Christian or otherwise, really need another literal re-telling of Jesus' death, as depicted in the Gospels?

Surely one would do far better by watching its horrific retelling, of a sort, in Lars Van Trier's Breaking the Waves and Dancer in the Dark. But then again, the adults who will soon be lining up to see The Passion, perhaps even taking their kids, in hopes that the death rattle of Christ will compel them away from sex and evolution, are likely the very same people who signed petitions against The Last Temptation of Christ.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Why should I say anything at all, when I have a kitten and foul-mouthed hedgehogs [that last one, by the way, is not safe for work] can say everything for me.

Happenings

To tell the truth, I'd kill for you
It's sick I know, but after all
My definition of the word:
Love is blind, love is good. ('Love', The Twilight Singers)

I've been telling people, anyone who will listen really, that I dislike Glasgow, that I'm ready to leave this forsaken city for sunnier skies and greener vegetables, that it is time to return to the country that needs me most, that it is time to go home. A part of me thinks it is the weather. Winters here are, in two words, a bitch. Not too cold. Certainly not too sunny. Just the same: day in, day out . . . the same. It's no wonder these people drink themselves to an early grave, or that I very likely have shaven a few off my own life. Or, then again, maybe it's just the really lousy exchange rate. After all, over the past couple of months, the value of my dollar has decreased by about 10% every thirty days; in fact, since arriving a couple of years, it's lost about 45% of its overall value. If I were just buying food every now and then, I might not even notice the hit. But when there's tuition to be paid, it's kind of difficult to be nearly so obtuse.

And yet . . .

It is Valentine's Day, no? If I'm not necessarily going to be any better boyfriend to Katrien, I should at least be a more amiable person in general. With that in mind, I'm not going to mull on these details. There are, for now, more important things to tell you about. Namely, The Twilight Singers. As I mentioned in a previous post, I got a chance to see them in action a couple of weeks ago; what I didn't mention, however, was that for about two hours, they made me absolutely forget not only my present dislike for Glasgow but, oddly, all the intervening years from when I was twenty years old until now. Those college years of mine were spent listening to the Afghan Whigs, thrashing about wildly at their concerts in Cincinnati and Columbus, oblivious to everyone and all. They were, and still are, the best live band I've ever seen. When they broke up in 1999, I decided that was the sign that it was time to put college things behind me -- to move on to more sophisticated things. To a bit of jazz. To classical. Hell, even an opera or two. On January 30th, though, at the King Tut's Wah Wah Hut, I hit a worm hole or something such, and found myself back in 1997, held in complete awe by a pudgy, unremarkable looking gravely-voiced, bourbon-drinking former Afghan Whig frontman named Greg Dulli.

The Twilight Singers are not as good as the Whigs at their height -- the intuitive mix between the band members just ain't there. But the energy, oh yeah, they got that in spades. Greg Dulli on stage is rough sex incarnate: sweaty, grunty, and a little jiggly. He thinks he is the coolest, sexiest thing in the room, and everybody at some point during the show, even if only for a moment, believes it. In the ensuing frottage of singer and audience, you can't help but start feeling the same thing about yourself. People who never dance bootylicious-style, like me, who never scream 'Fucking Aaaaaaaaaa' at the top of their lungs, unlike me, do so. Every room Dulli's bands walk into becomes a party, an intoxicated saturnalia whose hangover you'll greet with a wink and a smile.

You think I'm exaggerating, I know. I'm being hyperbolic, to offset the pissy mood this city sometimes puts me in. The only way you can be sure, though, is to check this band out when they come to your town or a town near you. Do so, and I promise you'll be kicking a boot in any television showing MTV-2, because you will have been truly reminded what rock music could and should be.

Rested. Though Not Yet Ready

January 30th?? Has it been that long since I've graced the halls of Silentio. One hundred apologies to all who've come and have seen little of note. Only one apology to those of you who have come to expect little of note but who come regularly anyway. The reason for my silence, outside of having very little to say, is that I've been hosting a couple of good friends from the States. I've a few things to say, post-trip, but they will have to wait a few more hours at least.

Incidentally, said friends will, we can hope, arrive safely home sometime tomorrow. Upon reading this I have a message, though really I guess it is for you all, even those I don't know because I'm just that kind of guy: Miss you terribly.