Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category

Use it or lose it

Wednesday, September 6th, 2006

Even though the viability of our old story (known at different times as “The Mutants” or “Benedict’s 9”) took a major hit with the success of “X-Men,” I continued to think it held some promise as a distinctive fictional idea. So much for that. Within the next month, two new television premieres will undoubtedly gouge deeper into the heart of our concept and kill it off for good: “The Nine,” which places a group of strangers into a high-stress scenario and then follows how their lives intertwine, and “Heroes,” a series about a professor who learns that ordinary people are developing extraordinary abilities (including an artist, a high schooler and an Asian guy—sound too familiar?). It reportedly has a group of sinister types pursuing them as their paths begin to cross. Good grief. Maybe somebody found our Web pages and stole our story. Hey, maybe we can sue if this takes off! Seriously, we sat on our treatment too long. Let’s hope someone else does it justice. I’m encouraged by the fact that Tim Kring was creatively involved in both “Crossing Jordan” and “Chicago Hope.” “Heroes,” will debut on Monday, September 25 at 9 pm, and a pilot for “The Nine,” is supposed to air on Wednesday, October 4 at 10 pm. Well, at least we can watch Tim Daly in a new show and see if he’s as good as he was in the ill-fated “Eyes.”

Various & Sundry, part forty-three

Friday, September 1st, 2006

— Month of August workout totals: Swim-4; Bike-7; Run-1; Lift-2; Yoga-7

— I saw Sheldon at the gym again this morning, well into Brian’s strenuous workout. I’m convinced that Sheldon really wants to get in shape. If Brian was putting me through that routine, I’d be having a tough time of it, too. Sheldon is one of the best fine artists in this part of the United States, but that distinction doesn’t exempt him from his sedentary profession. Good for you, my friend. Health, wellness, and life extension are something we can all be pro-active about, and that’s the service Brian provides. He’s one of the most fit young men in this part of the United States. On Wednesday night he came flying by me and called out, “Hop on!” I was already pedaling hard, but took the challenge to catch his draft at nearly 30 miles per hour. I could only “suck wheel” for a couple hundred yards before I fell apart. Man… Now that’s cycling.

— The Breidenbach 50th Anniversary collage had been sitting on my art board all week, so I set myself to the task of completing it this afternoon. While she was making constructive comments, Dana accidently smeared some fresh ink. She felt terrible. All I could say was “Just leave the area.” I wasn’t sure what to do at first, but within several minutes I managed to clean and repair the damage—with no indication of anything having gone wrong. I flashed back thirty-two years, when I’d doctor the dates on European rail passes. Yes, I could’ve been a master forger… I might’ve even become a David Halifax!

— Hugh (my friend the mayoral candidate) stopped by while we relaxed on the front porch this evening to enjoy the most refreshing air we’ve had in quite some time. We got to talking about the Town House, and tapped his wealth of knowledge about the history of local real estate. Our home on West Broadway was built in the 20s by W.A. Walker for a railroad man named Arnold, who also had a twin dwelling constructed for his daughter on St. Mildred’s Court, close to campus. She married a Bush Nichols, whose brother, one of Danville’s only Republican mayors, lived in the house across the street from ours. The Arnold daughter died at a young age. The second wife and widow of Bush Nichols still resides in the Twin House today.

— We haven’t indulged much network TV in ages, but last night Dana and I found ourselves glued for 90 minutes. We watched three consecutive episodes of “The Office.” Actually, the term “glued” is not correct usage. This might be the funniest show since “Seinfeld.” If that’s the case, it’ll be impossible to ignore.

V & S

strut and race, cut and paste

Sunday, July 30th, 2006

Began the day with an early 31-miler with nine of my best cycling chums—out to a remote area of Mercer County between Harrodsburg and Perryville, and then back to Danville in a hard pace line on U.S.150. Mark M mentioned a trip to the Appalachian Trail north of Hot Springs. It got me thinking how we could blend that with some out-of-state prospecting and a long-overdue visit to Broadwing Farm. Then I devoted most of my Sunday to further progress on three mixed media collage pieces that I need to have finished by Tuesday. I knew it might be nice to visit Joan during her final shift at the book seller, but I just don’t have an extra penny to spend. I’d like to start “Huck Finn” soon, but I can just borrow it across the street at the Boyle County Library.

Response to Brendan’s Challenge

Thursday, July 27th, 2006

Le Christ des Barricades

“Hear them?” Henri the carriagesmith asks. “How many, do you think?” Anselme cocks his head, adjusts the filthy bandage, and exposes an ear, crusty with blood. He listens.

“Two dozen riders, maybe three. Wearing cuirasses. With torches, perhaps?”

“Yes. I see the glow now.” He hefts the musket to check its priming in the failing light. “We must withdraw to the square and warn our citizens.”

Anselme lifts his hand from the exquisite frame and places it on his partner’s shoulder. “Go alone, my friend. I have strength only to delay them. You must safeguard the sacred icon—for the barricades!”

( 101 words )

Various & Sundry, part forty

Saturday, July 1st, 2006

— Month of June workout totals: Swim-2; Bike-12; Run-1; Lift-5; Yoga-2

— All the other training took a back seat to my cycling this month, as I push to regain the conditioning I lost during 2005. The Tour started in France today without Armstrong, who, at age 35, is preparing to run the New York City Marathon. At age 36, Agassi played his final match at Wimbledon today. With all the talk of aging, legendary athletes, it’s interesting to note that both men are still in the acknowledged target zone for an endurance event like the triathlon. I don’t expect Agassi to do more than settle into his role as a retired tennis superstar after his U.S. Open appearance in New York, but I think Lance might be a very different story. If he demonstrates the ability to run an impressive 26.2-miler in his own New York performance a month later, just watch—and you read it here—for him to set his sights on the
Iron Man competition. How much time could he spot his opponents in the water before devastating the field on a bicycle and then finish strong with a marathon run? It’s interesting to contemplate. He won’t do it for sport. He’ll do it as a cancer fighter, and what better way to keep his cause before a world audience?

— As I continue to look for my next major novel, my bedtime reading jumps back and forth between Isaac Asimov and Ernest Hemingway. If you don’t think that’s a bit strange, you should try it some time. They do have one thing in common, however. When I’m reading either one, I’m struck by how profound an influence they appear to have had on succeeding generations of writers. Every creative person is influenced by those who come before, but few of us can push beyond the derivative and craft something new for others to emulate.

— I completed a proof of my “Bridget” comic this afternoon. I had a hard time convincing myself that it was finished, so I stopped and compared notes with Brendan. I was able to achieve the rough, sketchy look I desired, but some areas of the artwork still need refinement. Once I got past the storyboarding phase, which was genuinely challenging for me, I found deep satisfaction executing the drawing itself. No doubt I could get rather good at this if I tried it more that once or twice a year. I don’t expect to be getting urgent calls from Kazu Kibuishi any time soon, but I was very happy to learn that Brendan thought my effort looked “fantastic.”

V & S

Kinda messy, though

Friday, June 30th, 2006

I’m creating an illustrated version of Bridget this evening—as I promised… with a deadline glancing over my shoulder—as I hoped to avoid. My artwork needs to do justice to the story, and I know I’m fully capable of that.

Suddenly, cartooning is much more difficult for me than I remember it.

GABBF 2006, additional reflections

Monday, June 12th, 2006

— Sunday was a day to shrug off the crazed Prospector (you should’ve seen him mining for diamonds last night) and just absorb the world-class sounds of the Band Festival before the musicians took their final bows.

— I often hear people say that the event “isn’t my kind of music.” I wonder how much of a Festival weekend they’ve actually experienced firsthand. Yesterday afternoon was a good example of how diverse the tunes can be—jazz, rock, motion picture soundtracks, patriotic marches, worship music, pop, classical—nobody would be out of luck except for a few die-hard country, hip-hop, or church organ fans. Over the weekend I heard bagpipes, a xylophone, a melodica, all types of percussion, plus a synthetically enhanced electric tuba, but primarily loads and loads of brass virtuosity. I honestly believe there’s no place on earth one can go to hear many of the world’s most skilled brass artists play for free, except for Danville, Kentucky during a couple days every June. Now, I suppose if you simply don’t care for people blowing horns, this event is not your cup of tea. To each his own, but one ought not to make assumptions. That’s like saying “I’ve never been to The Smithsonian or the National Gallery, but museums aren’t my thing.”

— I really shouldn’t go on. Everyone has their unique preferences when it comes to entertainment. I just happen to like James Clavell novels, Triple Crown horse races, vintage Chuck Heston movies, the Tour de France, watching old TV shows from the 60s, swimming in cold lakes, looking for pirates at plastic toy conventions, and sitting in front an outdoor stage at Centre College once a year. It’s just me. I never know what particular pieces of music will stir my emotions at the Brass Band Festival. This year it was Jens Lindemann playing Leroy Anderson’s “A Trumpeter’s Lullaby” in public for the first time in his career, or Randy Edelman’s haunting “Reunion And Finale” from the film “Gettysburg” and remembering the searing performance of Jeff Daniels, or hearing a Rhythm & Brass interpretation of Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of Moon” creatively fused with songs from “The Wizard of Oz.” We must all seek out these types of individual pleasures for a balanced spirit, or bring less of ourselves to the serious endeavors that life demands of us at other times.

Confessions of a “philistine” in recovery

Friday, June 9th, 2006

Our friend Gruntled has a couple recent posts about one of my favorite movies of the year. Back in January, after I saw “The Squid and the Whale,” I made a personal pledge to avail myself of the great novels. I recently watched a lecture Tom Wolfe gave at Duke on my birthday (indispensable C-SPAN!), and his comments reinforced my conviction. As it turns out, I was already chest deep in Ralph Ellison’s “Invisible Man.” I finished it last night. The towering, soul-rattling masterpiece has shattered any vestigial reluctance I had for embracing major American fictional works.

Now I find myself dealing with a new state of indecision— What next?

“The mind that has conceived a plan of living must never lose sight of the chaos against which that pattern was conceived. That goes for societies as well as for individuals.”

— from Invisible Man

Tales of the Graybeard Prospector XI

Thursday, May 11th, 2006

• This was one of those oddball days with wall-to-wall meetings and a string of outings into the community. Naturally, I tried to make the most of continuous contact with a wide variety of people, doing my best to avoid missing any opportunity to soft-sell our valuable capability.

Blow by quiet blow, I must pursue this steady defiance, in opposition to any prevailing trend of discontinuity in my commercial affairs. Resignation—to predispositions of temperament, or inevitabilities, or thought habits, or genes, or patterns of behavior, or personal psychology, or so-called karma, or perceptions of Fate—is not an option, as long as I have the power to invite change. Nothing is fixed in a world full of grace, in a world where I am receptive to the One Source of constructive change. As one would expect, the essayist provides even more keys:

But Fate has its lord; limitation its limits; is different seen from above and from below; from within and from without. For, though Fate is immense, so is power, which is the other fact in the dual world, immense. If Fate follows and limits power, power attends and antagonizes Fate. We must respect Fate as natural history, but there is more than natural history. For who and what is this criticism that pries into the matter? Man is not order of nature…But the lightning which explodes and fashions planets, maker of planets and suns, is in him…if you please to plant yourself on the side of Fate, and say, Fate is all; then we say, a part of Fate is the freedom of man. Forever wells up the impulse of choosing and acting in the soul. Intellect annuls Fate. So far as a man thinks, he is free…it is wholesome to man to look not at Fate, but the other way: the practical view is the other. His sound relation to these facts is to use and command, not to cringe to them…They who talk much of destiny, their birth-star, &c., are in a lower dangerous plane, and invite the evils they fear.

“Once a pirate, always a pirate.”

No…

And the Old Fisherman was not the only one who misunderstood.

The Ghost of Lice was wrong…

Follow not the path of destiny, but accept the freedom to understand and transcend it.

Act to empower oneself with a force of creative conduct.

graybeard prospector

As luck would have it

Thursday, April 13th, 2006

I requested the newest book by Paul Watkins from the library, and they bought it for the collection. It looks like I’m about to complete The Ice Soldier in one week. It’s clear that this author has developed a following, which has scant meaning to any particular reader, and that he’s also earned heaps of critical praise, but so have writers I find unreadable. All I care to know is that I’ve found a novelist who consistently delivers the goods for me. That’s enormously satisfying, although I’m sure I’d require his remarkable verbal skills to adequately put my appreciation into words.

There seems to be two main reasons to own a copy of a novel. First of all, it provides the opportunity to reach out and connect at one’s own volition, like telephoning a good friend. And, of course, the other reason is to loan it to those same friends. I want to own this book, but it occurs to me that a measure of my fondness for my friends will be whether I convince myself to buy two copies…

Yeah, I know… it’s a man-crush

Wednesday, January 25th, 2006

I first encountered Paul Watkins as a memoirist, and then set out to investigate his novels, reading both a later and earlier one. But, because I’d discovered his prose as nonfiction—spoken in his own, highly personal voice—I just had to find a copy of his first autobiographical work, “Stand Before Your God,” an account of his coming of age at English boarding schools. Thank goodness for the Kentucky system of interlibrary loans!

“Stand” is a bit tough to settle into, due to its uncomfortable opening. As a boy, Paul was literally tricked into leaving home at the age of seven to get an education in the centuries-old manner of the English upper crust. Unfortunately, he was an American, and was made to feel the misfit from the first startling moments. Out of this inescapable loneliness his creativity is born, and by page 100, I’d grown so fond of the lad that I was already bemoaning the end of the book.

A few years ago, after finishing “Drawing Life: Surviving the Unabomber” by David Gelernter, I understood that it’s possible for one to develop such a deep affection for the mind of a writer that the life-span of an exceptional book triggers all the emotions associated with birth, maturation, separation, and, inevitably, the finality of mourning.

I think many dedicated readers would understand what I’m trying to describe. Although I’m a bit uneasy with this phenomenon, I’m not ashamed to admit that on rare occasions, I can actually fall in love with an artist’s creative personality. Maybe it’s even more than that—a non-physical soul union of some type that alters you for the better.

When it comes down to it, most art is basically stupid… but not when it reaches heights worthy of the word. To be able to produce a single significant, enduring work of art is a tremendous achievement, but to consistently connect with others at such an essential level—as Watkins is able to do—almost defies comprehension.

Lord, I was born a ramblin’ man

Monday, January 9th, 2006

As Dana and I worked our way back toward Danville, we found ourselves near the Kentucky Theater, with the chance to catch a showing of “The Squid and the Whale” during its last week in Lexington. We hadn’t been in the adjacent State Theatre since the screening of Andrew’s movie last summer. Seeing this kind of film reminds me how much I appreciate the full spectrum of cinema, from the huge spectacles like “War of the Worlds,” to small literary pictures like “Squid.” I’m not enough of a groupie to outline any details, but I recognize the quality of the creative output coming from this particular circle of film makers, including Noah Baumbach, Wes Anderson, Jennifer Jason Leigh (Vic Morrow‘s daughter), the Wilson brothers, and others. The nature of the circle’s connection to talents such as Bill Murray, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Kevin Kline are unknown to me, but serves as a clear reminder that the movie biz is a relatively “small world” at the nontechnical level. “Squid” has obvious parallels to “The Royal Tenenbaums,” but it also triggered some reflections on “The Anniversary Party.” Beyond the dynamics of the artistic circle (usually behind the camera, but occasionally in front as well), these kinds of low-budget, quasi-autobiographical pieces tend to fascinate me when well executed, not so much because of the typical, self-reflective focus on dysfunctional relationships, but the way in which the art affects me at an emotional level and stimulates personal objectives. For me, that’s what movie-going has always been about—the lingering internal ripples of the following day (and beyond, if I’m lucky, or did a decent bit of homework before making my choice of feature). For instance, in spite of all the attention to the unattractive snobbishness of intellectual elitism, I come away from “Squid” with the distinct desire to reverse my practice of keeping at arm’s length the major works of great novelists—Dickens, Melville, Proust, etc. It brings to mind the words of Michel Seuphor, which I copied in my journal a while back: “You can never see too many things in a work of art. Itself, the work is a means for discovering what is already within us. The true work of art is more than its creator; it is always behind him; soon it enters another orbit not his, because the artist changes, he dies, while the work lives in others.” Twyla Tharp takes it a step further, examining the potential power of sub-art, with her story about Jerome Robbins: He was “a true man of the theater, who made a point of going to see everything because he could find something useful in even the worst productions. He’d sit there, viewing the catastrophe onstage, and imagine how he would have done it differently. A bad evening at the theater for everyone else was a creative workout for him.” No bad art, only bad observers? I wouldn’t take it to that extreme…

Magic Island

Wednesday, December 14th, 2005

I saw Joan’s mention of Aunt Carol’s game.

Beverages included? What about spices?

Ok, ok…

If I spend any more time, I’ll just keep fiddling around with them, so here are my picks—

Corn, tomatoes, spinach, almonds, eggs, cheese, avocados, vanilla ice cream, strawberries, and raspberries.

And we get to share, right?

How about if we add to the game?

I wasn’t there at the genesis, but what if we discovered a chest on Magic Island containing three books—a Holy Bible, the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, and Webster’s Dictionary of the English Language (unabridged)—and each of us could pick three additional books, which the chest would produce for our group library. There would be no other books on Magic Island—for the rest of our lives.

What three volumes would you choose?

Here are my selections—

The I Ching (or Book of Changes), The Odyssey of Homer, and James Clavell’s SHÕGUN.

When faced with picking books with pictures or books with words, I chose words. When faced with making more universal choices or being selfish, I decided to be selfish.

What about you?

Would you pick a how-to book, a cookbook (not a bad idea), or a collection of reproductions? Literature? What about a book with blank pages—no other books on Magic Island means just that—or a work you’d want the other inhabitants to read?

Nobody knows how long the chest’s magic will last.

Hurry, but choose wisely…

In the Blue Light of African Dreams

Tuesday, December 13th, 2005

This Paul Watkins novel simmered until page 256 and then boiled over inside me without warning.

How did he do that? It makes me want to wolf down the remaining 54 pages in one sitting, but I’m not sure I’m ready to release these characters just yet.

This is the third novel he wrote—at age 26. Third person rather than first, it has a slightly more unsettling tone than “The Forger,” but no less cinematic (even more so I’d say), and yet it’s clear the same creative force is present in this earlier work. Although perhaps a bit more eager to entertain at this stage, he applies a youthful energy to his story in a remarkably economical manner.

It’s a grand slam

Tuesday, December 6th, 2005

Dana and I decided to just go all the way with a “biopic grand slam,” and so we borrowed “Ray” from the library. Every so often I watch an Oscar-winner at work (Nicolas Cage in “Leaving Las Vegas” comes to mind) and I think, “Is this truly a performance that deserved an Academy Award?” This was definitely not one of those times. I’ll leave it to others more gifted than me to characterize Jamie Foxx’s phenomenal achievement.

As far as the movie goes, it makes “Beyond the Sea” look anemic by comparison—the difference between an obvious indie project and a big commercial picture with the highest production values. “Ray” is one of the best sounding Hollywood products in recent memory. The sound mixers deserved their awards every bit as much as the lead actor. Superbly directed, designed, and edited, the film is a technical masterpiece, but was it a better picture than “Million Dollar Baby?” No—because Clint delivers the full package that your heart is yearning for when you choose a movie like this. “Ray” has its moments—quite a few, and they’re exceptional—but failed to sustain a deep emotional connection for me. I cared more about whether Johnny Cash overcame his addiction in “Walk the Line,” and I really don’t think it was a function of who Ray Charles was or how good a job Jamie Foxx did.

I’ll continue to contemplate the similarities and contrasts of the four musical biographies I’ve discussed in my last two entries, and why one or another excelled in a particular area. In any case, each one of them is well worth the time, but now I plan to accept a couple new assignments in the spare-time department—the complete “Firefly” collection plus an early Paul Watkins novel…

Watkins rocks

Friday, December 2nd, 2005

I was mildly freaked out when Ian told me on Thanksgiving that he ordered “The Forger” based on my recommendation at this site. I hope he’s not disappointed. One never knows if another will have a response to a work of fiction similar to one’s own. I think he may find interesting the parallel between a young man living alone in Paris and his own solitary travel to an unfamiliar city.

But Halifax had it easy. He only had to deal with the Gestapo.

Chlorine, linseed oil, and pigskin

Thursday, November 3rd, 2005

Today’s swim was as meditative as Tuesday’s was strenuous. Before I came home I walked over to the Jones Center and looked over the exhibition of sculptures. Standing in the painting studio among the half-finished canvases, I breathed in the vapors of turpentine and tried to get the Paul Watkins story out of my system (it made matters worse). Last night I listened to a 1993 radio interview that helped me gain a greater sense of the young man. The interviewer used the word “precocious,” but I must say I didn’t have that impression after having lived with David Halifax for a week. Well, I suppose most contemporary artists tend to squander youth before getting their act together, so any disciplined person who hits the ground running by the age of 20 is now considered prematurely developed.

I was talking to Marty about the novel and immediately he thought it would translate well as a motion picture. He chose Tobey Maguire as Halifax and Sean Connery as Pankratov. Not bad. I’d go with Michael Gambon or Brian Cox as the gruff, mysterious Russian myself (but who besides Cox could be Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring?). The character of Guillaume Fleury is trickier. John Turturro could have played him early in his career (maybe a bit too tall). Perhaps Jason Schwartzman would be a good match today, but I’m not familiar enough with his work. The likeness of Fluery that I picture in my mind is similar to a self-portrait by Pierre Bonnard. Marty suggested Adrien Brody—not bad again. He asked me how one gets to be a casting director in Hollywood, and I’m ashamed to admit that I came back with a snide reply inappropriate for a fourteen-year-old lad. Needless to say, it doesn’t please me when I witness a pocket of cynicism erupt from below the surface, like looking in the mirror to discover a conspicuous pimple.

Speaking of Marty, I had to pick him up from school yesterday when he was feeling too sick to wait for a bus ride home. I told him to stay warm, rest, take some vitamin C, and, so he wouldn’t miss any class time today, not to be “outside playing football after your friends get home.” When I talked to Terie later she said that he was fine. “Really?” I asked. “Yeah, he’s playing football,” she said.

Vive la Valya

Wednesday, November 2nd, 2005

Thoughts—more than that—expansive, deep-breathing celestial amalgamations inspired by a magnificent story of smoldering suspense, defying containment by mere intellect, taking possession of my imagination, filling it and spilling over like Champagne poured too quickly, and I’m wondering who happens to control the film rights to The Forger, and whether he is a typical Hollywood son of a bitch, and I’m certain that I could design the production, fixated on the idea that Brendan would play David Halifax, and totally convinced that Andrew was born to make this movie…

Yes, I know—these are the outrageously soaring notions one has after finishing a Paul Watkins novel.

The perfect pace

Saturday, October 29th, 2005

I’m not sure why, but I have this notion that reading a very good novel is a lot like my ideal bike ride. I only feel the effort when I start out, until I hit a smooth rhythm, and then I become oblivious to the process, taking in all the pleasurable sensory details, pausing now and then to rest. There’s always the clear sense of a turning point, usually after a satisfying exertion, and then all I want to do is speed onward, with no desire to stop—not to reach the end, but to experience the pure enjoyment of moving fast.

Superficiality? That’s why TV was invented. Fiction is another matter

Wednesday, October 26th, 2005

My admiration for Charlton Heston is enormous—the actor, the activist, the man—and so I find it almost impossible to watch the last few of his movies I haven’t yet seen, such as The President’s Lady, Antony and Cleopatra, The War Lord, and Khartoum. Thinking about why this might be so brings to mind a conversation I had several months back with a librarian. I was lamenting the premature demise of James Clavell, and that there were no more of his novels left to read for the first time. She suggested I find an author who wrote in a similar manner, but that struck me as an unappealing solution. I wasn’t searching for a substitute. Instead, I yearned for a contemporary writer with an entirely different style to enjoy every bit as much, who would connect with me in a compelling and exceptional way. Have I now found that person? As I get deeper into
The Forger by Paul Watkins, I find myself wanting to read everything he’s written. I suppose that’s a reasonably good sign I have…

Meanwhile, down at the corner pub

Monday, October 17th, 2005

Someday it would be fun to draw—no—I SHALL create a comic strip version of Bridget, and I’ll begin now if you agree to buy it. Metal frame or wood? Next Day Air or standard ground?

Hot gates vs cool heads

Monday, August 22nd, 2005

I can’t get “Gates of Fire” off the front of my mind today. It’s at times like this I could use a basic intellect boost (remember that Krell device in “Forbidden Planet?”) and coalesce all my fragments of thought to produce a single, coherent insight. To be more specific, I keep thinking of Thermopylae, and what it meant, and, beyond that, the place it holds in our history. How many times has it inspired those who faced impossible odds, or given meaning to sacrifices that would serve no immediate purpose other than to lay the groundwork for a subsequent overcoming, or compelled strivers to place the welfare of the many over life itself? And if so, it must be true that knowledge of the heroic feat was present in the mental quiver of an educated person. Is that still true today? If you asked a hundred Americans old enough to vote, how many of them would recognize the word “Thermopylae?” And of those, how many would know what it meant? And of those, how many could explain its significance to Western Civilization? And of those, how many would believe it was a positive contribution to the world that followed? And who among them might speculate with me about how the event had perhaps influenced Wallace and his Scots? Washington and his Rabble? Houston and his Texicans? Churchill, Roosevelt, and Eisenhower and the ordinary men they motivated to storm death’s sanctum on both sides of the planet?

   —may contain spoilers—
I wish I had the capacity to take Pressfield‘s premise—that Leonidas hand-picked the 300 Spartan warriors, not for their own character, but for the character of their wives, mothers, and daughters, knowing that the ultimate victory would come to pass when the embattled Greeks took heart from the conduct of the Spartan people, which would in turn be based on the Spartans observing the conduct of the women who would survive their slain husbands, sons, and fathers—and apply it to the national dilemma we face today. I wish I had the ability to write cogently about our collective response to the public posture of American women such as Cindy Sheehan, Evelyn Husband, and Shannon Spann, and what it may indicate for our future as a society, and the longevity of the institutions we inherit from the ancients—from that time when the very survival of human freedom as a concept balanced on a spear point called Thermopylae.

There now. If you managed to wade all the way through that swirling, whiny muck above to reach this point, dear reader, all I can do is kiss you lightly on the forehead and say, “Thank you. Now, please go hose yourself off…”