Closing credits (2018)

A rainy New Year’s Eve. Still, 2018 ends with more warmth than 2017 did.

This is my 120th entry of the year. I’ve written ten entries each month.

For providing material to discuss, I again thank Karin, Jasper, and Ziva; my tutees; my blood relations; and Brianna and other in-laws.

Additionally, this year, I acknowledge:

The poets.

Boca Juniors and River Plate.

The Mormons, who, until mid-October, were very friendly to Karin & me. They must have then given up trying to convert us.

Brett Kavanaugh.

My dissertation adviser for – so far – allowing various prolongments.

The St. Joseph River for declining to flood our apartment complex.

The city of Austin.

Maj Sjöwall & Per Wahlöö for authoring the Martin Beck mysteries.

Aimee-Ffion Edwards for acting in four of the best screenworks I viewed this year:

• Skins (a lewd TV soap opera about Bristol’s teens; not for the faint of heart);
• Detectorists (a gentle sitcom – featuring the excellent Toby Jones – about rural, amateur metal detectorists; quite suitable for the faint of heart);
• Luther (a quasi-fantastical crime show starring Idris Elba; for the great of heart); and
• Queen & Country (the long-overdue, surprisingly un-cynical, cinematic continuation of John Boorman’s Hope and Glory).

I also thank the moviemakers of 1996.

And I thank our new church, which welcomed Karin & me during a rather turbulent period. We watched over the two- and three-year-olds during many services. Starting in the spring, we also wrote, printed out, and folded each week’s bulletin. (Mercifully, that task will soon be performed by a new secretary.) The most rewarding event each week was the adults’ Sunday School class. For authoring that class’s discussion guides, I heartily thank the late John Stott.

Finally: thanks to everyone who offered money and prayers on our behalf. Please pray for me to complete my degree soon. Karin & I long to get out of this rut in which we’ve been living.

The joy of getting, pt. 2

Karin & I went to four Christmas gatherings. All were relatively painless, and some were quite nice.

As mentioned a few entries ago, I participated in the gift exchange held by Karin’s mother’s family. I’d been assigned to buy gifts for Brianna. She’d asked for clothes and toys with decorations of Hufflepuff – her Harry Potter “house” – and of Bob’s Burgers, the TV show. My selections were very well-received: especially, the Bob’s Burgers-themed Clue game, which we all played after we finished eating the Christmas meal. (Brianna was the murderer, of course.)

Brianna also had drawn my name for the exchange. She used her $50 budget to order three books for me, all of them new, though I’d submitted a much longer wish list of used books. Two of the new books arrived in time for Christmas; one is still in the mail.

The three books are:

• An Artist of the Floating World by Kazuo Ishiguro (not yet arrived);
• The Unconsoled by Kazuo Ishiguro; and
• Thinking, Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman.

Due to my puny haul, and out of pity, Karin bought me the last two of Sjöwall’s & Wahlöö’s police procedurals (used).

At the gathering of Karin’s dad’s family, I was given a book called A Journal for Jordan, the heartrending true story of a U.S. soldier killed in Iraq and the woman and child he left behind. This, apparently, is a “joke” gift that has been passed around between all the family members.

I also was given a t-shirt depicting Schrödinger’s cat:

The cat is a recurring topic of discussion in the TV sitcom The Big Bang Theory, which Karin’s dad’s family enjoys. I don’t watch that sitcom – it’s about nerds – but I do like cats and metaphysics (which is not the same discipline as physics). I talked to Karin’s dad’s family about this horrifying philosophical paper to show that I appreciated their gift.

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 10: Beautiful girls

This movie takes place in the coldest, snowiest time of the year, in a town in the northeastern United States. The setting is not unlike those of It’s a Wonderful Life and the bleak novel Appointment in Samarra. Everyone knows everybody else; the hierarchies have long been established; very little goes on, and so the inhabitants drink a lot of alcohol and dabble in sexual and romantic intrigue.

The most troubling flirtation is the one between Marty (Natalie Portman), a precocious thirteen-year-old, and Willie (Timothy Hutton), who’s twenty-nine and has returned to the town after many years in the big city. Marty’s and Willie’s scenes are meant to be charming, but some viewers may well be disgusted by them. The obvious contrast is with the novel Lolita, in which it’s clear that the teenaged character’s flirtatiousness is a projection of the adult narrator’s warped point of view. Is anything like this true of Marty’s and Willie’s scenes in Beautiful Girls? It would seem not.

Whether or not the movie errs in failing to condemn a grown man’s attraction to a thirteen-year-old, its focus is upon a different problem, which is that Willie is insufficiently committed to the grown woman with whom he’s in a long-term relationship. This is a problem that he shares with several other male characters.

They include Tommy (Matt Dillon) and Paul (Michael Rapaport), who are involved with Sharon (Mira Sorvino) and Jan (Martha Plimpton), respectively. Tommy distracts himself from Sharon by continuing a long, stale affair with rich housewife Darian (Lauren Holly). Paul has fallen out with Jan because he idealizes women in a way encouraged by certain magazines. The movie could have been called “Distracted Men,” though that title wouldn’t have sold as many tickets as “Beautiful Girls.”

I list all these actors because their casting is crucial. No one plays against type. Hutton (Ordinary People) plays a starry-eyed idealist on the verge of self-destruction. Portman, previously of Léon: The Professional, seems sophisticated beyond her years. (Now that the years have caught up with her, is she as effective an actress?) Dillon, as in Drugstore Cowboy, A Kiss Before Dying, and Wild Things, plays an intelligent hunk trapped in a soul-crushing rut; Holly (Dumb and Dumber) plays a character who’s rich, glamorous, and accustomed to enjoying men’s attention. Rapaport and Plimpton look less gorgeous than the other actors but display incisive charisma. This is even truer of Rosie O’Donnell, whose task is to recite basic feminist wisdom.

Earlier I mentioned It’s a Wonderful Life and Appointment in Samarra – one story that ends well and another that ends badly. So, then: which way does this movie go? Do these people get better or worse? Is this movie nasty or nice?

From the beginning, there’s no question that it’s a very nice, very jolly movie. For all their misdeeds, the characters exhibit warmth and camaraderie, as in this poster – which arranges the cast around Andera (Uma Thurman), the movie’s most desirable “girl”:

Other characters, hitherto unmentioned, add to this camaraderie. They’ve more or less figured out life; they serve as beacons to those who are still wandering. A lot of caring goes on in this movie.

As Roger Ebert puts it:

What’s nicest about the film is the way it treasures the good feelings people can have for one another. They emerge most tenderly in the friendship between Willie and the 13-year-old girl.

They have crushes on each other for essentially idealistic reasons (each projects a simplicity and perfection that may not be there), and yet they draw apart, ever so tactfully, because they are sensible enough to know that it’s the right thing to do.

Their relationship is mirrored in all of the others, which are all about idealism and its disappointments. The men insist that women correspond to some sort of universal ideal, and the women sometimes blame themselves when they cannot. But somehow, doggedly, true love teaches its lesson, which is that you can fall in love with an ideal, but you can only be in love with a human being.

The townspeople are rough around the edges, as illustrated in scenes of misbehavior involving snowplows. Piling up snow in front of a former girlfriend’s garage is not a gentlemanly thing to do. But snow is, at least, clean; it can be cleared away; and, eventually, it will melt. This movie exhibits the comedic faith that wrongs are impermanent, that they can be undone.

The gynecologist’s; Milkman; Silver Blaze

I went with Karin to her gynecological exam. A lot of men were there with their WAGs. They looked as if they absolutely did not want to be there. I’m sure I looked the same. On the whole, though, the experience wasn’t too bad (from a spectator’s perspective). The doctor was very nice. “Girl power” music – Katy Perry, etc. – was piped into every room.

Also feminine is the newest Man Booker Prize-winning novel, Milkman by Anna Burns. It offers a taxonomy of men. Being categorized unnerves me as a masculine reader. The book is set in a nationally and religiously divided city in Northern Ireland, where the constant fighting allows men to behave in manly ways and turns the women into collateral damage. But I’m sure the narrator, “middle sister,” will overcome her powerlessness and invisibilty (or, rather, her undesired visibility). She’s a voracious reader, for one thing, which means she’s smarter than the other characters, especially the men (or is she?). And she’s quite a runner, which means she’s physically tough.

Inspired by “middle sister,” I rode Silver Blaze, the bike, yesterday, which was not so painful as when I’d try to run after months of inactivity. I endured moments after the bike ride when I was unable to stand, but I suffered no blistering, no aching of joints. Alas, I didn’t burn nearly as many calories as when I used to run, but one must begin somewhere.

The vanilla method

Karin took two days off from work, and so we did quite a lot of shopping and appointment keeping.

At a thrift store, I bought eleven books.

We took Jasper to the vet’s for a follow-up appointment. When we brought him home, little Ziva again attacked him; but this time, we’d been advised by the vet to put vanilla on Ziva’s nose so that she wouldn’t smell Jasper’s oddness.

The tactic succeeded after three applications of vanilla. The kitties were kind to each other for the rest of the evening.

Today, Karin went to a friend’s house to bake cookies, and I stayed at home to read whatever I could about U.S. Senator and presidential aspirant Cory Booker (a New Jersey Democrat).

Liberal-leaning people of my age in South Bend are gung-ho about our mayor, Peter Buttigieg, whose forthcoming book depicts him rolling up his sleeves to repair our city (as if he himself were going to fill in the potholes). They want him to run for President. And, indeed, he’s just announced that he won’t seek mayoral reelection; it’s presumed he’ll aim higher.

I don’t know if I’d want Buttigieg or Booker to be the next U.S. President. If I were talking to Hank Hill, he’d tell me that both of these guys have too much “flash.” (I’d much rather have a leader like Bertie of The King’s Speech, which Karin & I watched last night: one who appreciates the burden of leadership well enough to stammer when confronted with it.) But it strikes me that Buttigieg and Booker are very alike with respect to ideology (centrist liberalism), formative background (well-to-do middle class; Ivy League; Oxford), and political experience (largely mayoral); only, under each category, Booker has the better credentials.

So, I say to my South Bend friends (if any of you read this): if you like Buttigieg, support Booker instead.

Otherwise, cast your net elsewhere.

(See, that’s the trouble with having studied moral philosophy: one finds oneself unable to make categorical recommendations; one can only make conditional ones. Vanilla. Earlier today, I was rereading Luther’s On the Bondage of the Will, which was in a collection I’d bought at the thrift store, and Luther was upbraiding Erasmus for exhibiting the same tendency, i.e., for not being unconditionally assertive. I don’t think Luther and I would have gotten along.)

December’s poem

“Descriptive Jottings of London”:

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

As I stood upon London Bridge and viewed the mighty throng / Of thousands of people in cabs and ’busses rapidly whirling along, / All furiously driving to and fro, / Up one street and down another as quick as they could go:

Then I was struck with the discordant sound of human voices there, / Which seemed to me like wild geese cackling in the air: / And the river Thames is a most beautiful sight, / To see the steamers sailing upon it by day and by night.

And the Tower of London is most gloomy to behold, / And the crown of England lies there, begemmed with precious stones and gold; / King Henry the Sixth was murdered there by the Duke of Glo’ster, / And when he killed him with his sword he called him an impostor.

St. Paul’s Cathedral is the finest building that ever I did see, / There’s no building can surpass it in the city of Dundee, / Because it’s magnificent to behold, / With its beautiful dome and spire glittering like gold.

And as for Nelson’s Monument that stands in Trafalgar Square, / It is a most stately monument I most solemnly declare, / And towering defiantly very high, / Which arrests strangers’ attention while passing by.

Then there’s two beautiful water-fountains spouting up very high, / Where the weary traveller can drink when he feels dry; / And at the foot of the monument there’s three bronze lions in grand array, / Enough to make the stranger’s heart throb with dismay.

Then there’s Mr Spurgeon, a great preacher, which no one dare gainsay, / I went to hear him preach on the Sabbath-day, / And he made my heart feel light and gay, / When I heard him preach and pray.

And the Tabernacle was crowded from ceiling to floor, / And many were standing outside the door; / He is an eloquent preacher I honestly declare, / And I was struck with admiration as on him I did stare.

Then there’s Petticoat Lane I venture to say, / It’s a wonderful place on the Sabbath-day; / There wearing-apparel can be bought to suit the young or old, / For the ready cash, silver, coppers, or gold.

Oh! mighty city of London! you are wonderful to see, / And thy beauties no doubt fill the tourist’s heart with glee; / But during my short stay, and while wandering there, / Mr Spurgeon was the only man I heard speaking proper English I do declare.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

(William McGonagall)

A dismal realization

It’s exam week at IUSB. My vacation will begin on Saturday.

Today, I worked for just two hours. All my appointments with college students were canceled. I only tutored my middle school student. (She’s in the eighth grade.)

Reviewing mathematics with her, I realized that she had no understanding of percentages.

First, she couldn’t tell me what percentage is left over if 15% is subtracted from the whole.

Then, she couldn’t tell me that 15/100 = 15%.

It was one of the most dismaying moments of my tutoring career.

La final del mundo, pt. 3

Today in Madrid, Boca Juniors and River Plate finished playing the Copa Libertadores. I watched the game with Stephen, on Telemundo.

It was a great contest. The two teams scored four golazos.

These were some of the highlights.

The joy of getting

This season, I’ve busied myself for many hours fashioning my Christmas wish lists.

One list is for my siblings’ gift exchange. I’ve suggested four books that my designated giver may choose to buy for me. The spending limit for all the books together is $20.

The other list pertains to the gift exchange of Karin’s mother’s family. For this exchange, each giver’s spending limit is $50, and I’ve requested ten books.

(My in-laws on Karin’s father’s side provide no lists; everyone haphazardly buys for everyone.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The task of list making requires great care.

Items may not be placed on more than one list, and some that are all right for one exchange may be inappropriate for the other.

ISBNs must be specified. For some books, it’s important to include the caveat “new” or “used.” Used copies must meet certain conditions (e.g., spinal intactness).

At least, I feel I must spell this out for several of my in-laws. Such is my condescending attitude toward those who aren’t my blood relations. (I trust my own siblings to be familiar with the requirements of book buying.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

So far, two of my requests have arrived in the mail: Natsume Sōseki’s The Gate and Crawford Elder’s Real Natures and Familiar Objects (a book of metaphysics, much cheaper now than when it was first published thirteen years ago).

I also am grateful for two unsolicited volumes: Uncle Tom’s Cabin, a copy of which was discarded by the library at IUSB; and the second edition of The Cambridge Dictionary of Philosophy, edited by Robert Audi, discarded by the tutoring department.

I lick my chops, anticipating further bounty.

Poor Jasper

We took Jasper to the vet’s for the second time in about a month. … He howled all the time in the car. … At the vet’s, he hunched up his shoulders, puffed his fur out, and kept his ears at half-mast (three bad signs). … Of course, it didn’t comfort him that he had to get his shots. … He weighed an ounce more than he’d weighed during the previous visit, probably because this morning he’d eaten a chicken breast out of the trash. … When he arrived back at home, Ziva attacked him (apparently, this is common in multi-cat households. It happens because the returning cat smells awfully weird, having secreted so many stress chemicals). … She kept on attacking Jasper for several hours. … Karin tried distracting them both with some catnip, but Ziva still wouldn’t leave Jasper alone. … Now, at last, she’s ignoring him.

The poor beastie. … He hadn’t even wanted to go to the vet’s, in the first place.