December’s poem

The Omicron COVID variant has hit Cornell hard, CNN reports. Many of the infected persons are fully vaccinated. A good number have been given booster shots.

The latest figures are here. They are worth beholding.

I’d bet that most of us, at some time or another, will get infected with Omicron or something worse.

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Here is the latest video of Un mundo inmenso. It’s about the hipster despot of El Salvador, the one who made Bitcoin a national currency.

I always knew hipsterdom would get out of hand. I just didn’t expect El Salvador to lead the way.

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This poem is by William Blake.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Is this a holy thing to see,

In a rich and fruitful land,

Babes reduc’d to misery,

Fed with cold and usurous hand?

Is that trembling cry a song?

Can it be a song of joy?

And so many children poor?

It is a land of poverty!

And their sun does never shine.

And their fields are bleak & bare.

And their ways are fill’d with thorns.

It is eternal winter there.

For where-e’er the sun does shine,

And where-e’er the rain does fall:

Babe can never hunger there,

Nor poverty the mind appall.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Our trip to the east

A fright

Last night, we were zipping along the Ohio Turnpike at 70 mph when the gigantic face of Chucky the killer doll loomed over us on an outdoor theater screen. Karin almost drove off the road.

Airbnb

It was our first time using the service. It went very smoothly and cost just $40.

Breakfast at a hipster restaurant in Cleveland

Karin’s colleague asked her to send pictures of our meals.

So Karin photographed my burrito:

The Southern Tier Expressway

This is one of my favorite U.S. roads. It’s fast, uncrowded, curvy, hilly, and lush. It runs next to gorges, small towns, and picturesque 19th-century farms with red barns and grazing cattle.

We stopped for lunch at Tim Horton’s in Jamestown. The steep streets and old buildings reminded me of Ithaca (still almost 200 miles away) and considerably lifted my spirits. Until then, I hadn’t realized how strongly I’d missed the region.

Our baby did summersaults in Karin’s belly all afternoon.

The old Salvationists

Karin got her first glimpse of Ithaca from several miles away. She marveled at its beauty. But rather than enter the city, we turned up a narrow, steep road to the town of Danby. There, the Salvationists were eagerly awaiting us.

They gave us supper and recited their ailments. But, to me, they seemed not to have aged very much at all.

R.I.P. Rachel Held Evans

Her earthly race is all run.

RHE – blogger, book author, speaker – ecumenical Episcopalian, ex-evangelical, biblical anti-literalist, feminist – U.S. Southerner, Bryan College alumna, daughter, sister, wife, mother – and much more – has suddenly died at thirty-seven (my own age). Her body seems to have reacted severely against routine treatment for infection and flu.

I used to read her blog when I lived in Ithaca. I liked watching her wrestle, in near-real time, with difficult questions of biblical interpretation, theology, and practical ethics. I liked the humility with which she responded to critics. I liked how she made room on her blog for respectful Q&A sessions with representatives of different faith traditions.

The last couple of days, I’ve been skimming through entries that I missed after I stopped reading her blog around 2013.

She wasn’t formally trained in the topics she wrote about, but she was a persistent student. We can see this from her notes on Justo L. González’s The Story of Christianity, vol. 1 and vol. 2. Reading the latter volume, she learned that …

… at a time when Christians were condemning, expelling, and killing one another over doctrinal differences, a guy named Georg Calixtus had the crazy idea that perhaps one could hold to one’s convictions (his were Lutheran) without condemning as heretics those with whom one disagrees. He argued that there was a difference, after all, between heresy and error. This made far too much sense, and Calixtus was largely written off by his contemporaries. But he sounded cool to me so I gave him hipster glasses and a hat:

(Yes, alas, this sometime Proverbs 31 aspirant normally clothed herself in hipster garb. But she wore it lightly.)

Since few of us are professional scholars, it was valuable to have someone publicly exemplifying what she did, which was to approach serious questions with candor and humility, as a confirmed amateur, untainted by the presumptions of the guilds …

… which she skewered, graciously, in another blog entry, “Why a Seminary Degree Doesn’t Have to Make You a Jerk.”

She wasn’t afraid to take authoritarians to task. She was a skillful gadfly, judiciously choosing her targets, as we can see from her entry “The Bible Was ‘Clear’ …”

Playing the gadfly brought her enemies, maybe especially from among the Southern Baptists. Here is what one of them says. Without spelling it out, he insinuates that RHE has been sent to hell.

I’m not nearly so pessimistic. Whether her race was well run is for God to decide; but, having read much of her blogging, I have reason to hope that the best for her is still to come.

I’m terribly sad, though, for the husband and two young children she leaves behind.

(Photo by Dan Evans)

Update: Here are three of the better tributes to RHE, all on one page. (Hat tip to David Swartz.)

Update: Here’s a merciful conservative Christian reaction to RHE’s death. (Hat tip to my pastor.)

Update: One more article (this one from the Atlantic).

Austin, or, rather, the Texas Hill Country, pt. 3: LBJ’s ranch

I wished to view something more “Texan” than the hipster city of Austin. And so, on Friday, Ana & David took Karin & me out into the Texas Hill Country. Our destination was the LBJ Ranch.

We drove through Dripping Springs and Johnson City, where LBJ grew up (and which was named after his cousin). That city is now a tourist town. We also passed some wineries. Onward!, I insisted. No wineries! Onward, to the ranch!

Admission to the ranch was free, but each of us was charged $3 to tour the house. Driving through the property, we saw the Pedernales River and large fields with handsome Hereford cattle. We also stopped at LBJ’s airplane hangar and viewed a short movie about the importance of the ranch to the Johnson family and the nation. LBJ spent about a quarter of his presidency on the ranch. He hosted politicians and foreign dignitaries there. (His Secret Servicemen were disguised as ranch hands.) We also listened to an airman tell stories about how LBJ would fly into the ranch at the government’s expense.

The house itself was rather plain. It had eight bedrooms, a swimming pool, and many, many phones and televisions. It was decorated in the Sixties’ style, with vinyl armchairs, lemon-yellow countertops, and popular books from the period. (I was reminded of the Missionary Church Dorm, in Quito.) The best thing in the house, however, was LBJ’s desk chair, made of spotted cowhide. Oh, how I longed to sit in that chair! Alas, it wasn’t permitted.

Austin, pt. 2: Russell and one other frisky, young dog (the goose hunter)

Karin & I are nearly back at home. I’m writing this on the train between Chicago and South Bend.

I was going to call this entry “Austin, pt. 2: Sux By Southwest,” but Mary (or some other commenter with the moniker “Me”) is impatient to read about Russell, and so I’ll discuss him instead. During our visit, Russell was unfailingly sweet and playful as a host. Also, he refrained from chewing up the travel cushions that we left lying around the apartment, which showed impressive maturity. He certainly is being raised better than Karin & I are raising Jasper and Ziva (though he has the behavioral advantage of being a dog).

It was pitiable to leave him in Ana’s & David’s apartment for many hours each day, but that’s what we had to do.

On Thursday, we went downtown to look at the capitol building from afar and to get lunch from a typical Austin food truck. This second quest was quite an ordeal. Because of the hipster festival, we had to pay $20 to park in a faraway garage. Then we walked several miles through downtown, past shoppers and festival-goers, and when we arrived at the food truck, we paid $52 for a three-person lunch. The festival itself wasn’t especially vibrant; Karin & I were in Chicago for one hour this afternoon, and the St. Patrick’s Day revelers there put SXSW to shame.

We finished our tour of downtown Austin by walking a few more miles on a lakeside trail. David pointed to some kayakers who had their dogs with them. “This is what Austinites aspire to,” he said. I was reminded of the good people of South Bend. Then one of the kayakers’ dogs jumped into the water and started to paddle toward a flock of geese. The birds were wise to him and kept out of his reach.

At the end of the day, Ana joined us and we hiked several more stony miles on a different trail. Finally, we came to a small, clear pool, into which Karin dipped her feet. This made her want to use the hot tub at the apartment complex. So, that night, we did: I bobbed up and down while Karin swam a few dozen tiny laps.

While all of this was going on, Austin made the national news because package bombs were killing people there. We were so busy with our activities, we didn’t learn about the bombings until this morning, in the airport.

Austin, pt. 1: the outskirts

Though I’d known that Austin was hilly, I hadn’t expected so much of it to look like a gently undulating sea of trees – green trees mixed with scrubby, gray ones, sloshing over an occasionally exposed bed of brown-red soil.

David says the climate is Mediterranean, and I suppose that’s right. The air has been dry, the skies have been clear, and the temperature’s been in the fifties and sixties, Fahrenheit (in the summer, it’ll rise into the hundreds).

The buildings in Austin are incredible. Not beautiful: just very new, comfortable, and expensive-looking. Viewing them from the freeway, and now and then from regular city streets, I can tell that I’ll never be able to afford to live – or to work – in them.

Ana’s & David’s apartment near the edge of town is small but spiffy. Across the road is a private school that one of George W. Bush’s daughters used to attend.

We stayed near the outskirts yesterday (no downtown; no hipsters). David and Karin & I visited the zoo, all of whose animals had been “rescued.” My favorite animal was a gigantic Yorkshire hog named Babe. It was elderly and cancerous.

Then, we took a short hike to look out over the Pedernales River.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

In the evening, Ana joined us and we set out for the town of Marble Falls. We intended to visit the town’s cascadian namesake, as well as its state park and its legendary café, the Blue Bonnet, which is known for having a “wall of pies.”

We drove for an hour. When we reached the town, we found a pretty little lake and a city park, but no state park or falls. We asked Google to direct us. Finally, we came to a bit of cemented land with a distinctive topology of curved ramps and trenches, among which loitered some helmeted youths.

A sign proclaimed: “Marble Falls Skate Park.” Skate park, not state park. So much for that destination.

Next, we tried to visit the falls. This time, Google took us to the entrance of a gated residential area. A guard came out to meet us. We told her that Google had brought us there to see the falls. “Yes,” she said, “Google does do that. Unfortunately, the falls were covered over many years ago, when the dam was built.” (In 1951, we later learned.)

There remained the Blue Bonnet Café to visit. This, at least, existed, and regular diners already were queueing up to go inside. But our wait wasn’t long, our food wasn’t bad, and, afterward, we certainly ate a lot of pie.

The LimeBike

As Borat says, “In my country, there is problem / And that problem is transport.”

Well, South Bend has joined in an experiment to make transport better, or, at least, more hip. It has adopted the LimeBike system.

Behold these young Seattleites riding LimeBikes.

The system works like this. Garish green bikes are planted all over the city. When you find one, you scan its QR code with your phone. This allows you to ride for up to 30 minutes.

$1 is charged to your tab.

Afterward, you leave the bike in any accessible, unobtrusive place (e.g., on the grass next to a public sidewalk).

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I strongly disapprove of car transport, and so you’d think I’d have high hopes for the LimeBike.

Alas, I don’t.

I don’t think the LimeBike ever will become popular enough to significantly change the transport system. South Benders will continue to drive.

If I recall correctly, that’s what’s happened in the Netherlands. For many years, the Dutch have had a generous bike-sharing system. And many Dutch do use it: cycling is an important part of their culture. But few Dutch commuters switch over from driving cars.

My conjecture is that no matter what country you go to, introducing more bikes won’t change the overall transport preferences.

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But suppose that LimeBikes were to become popular in South Bend, or were perceived to be popular. That would be dangerous, lest support be withdrawn from public bussing.

Mass transit is what really matters to poor people. No one too poor to own a car would wish to depend on some dumb bike. Especially not in snow or rain. And not in old age or illness or affliction.

For the occasional light errand, the LimeBike is OK. Though it isn’t cheaper than riding the bus, in some circumstances it’s more practical. But as a significant influence upon transit patterns, it’s less likely to help than to hurt.

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Also, the LimeBike reminds me of Dr. Seuss’s Pale Green Pants. I keep seeing it in strange places, as if it were following me.

This week, there’s been a LimeBike in my parking lot. Every day, the thing has moved a little closer to my building. Now it’s sitting on my front porch.

It creeps me out.

In Seattle, the LimeBike has taken to hanging from the trees.

And in South Bend, it keeps on appearing in the river, as if it were Ophelia.

The sum of small things

At last! A social scientist – “the James Irvine Chair in Urban and Regional Planning and professor of public policy at the University of Southern California” – has written the book on hipsters.

Or, more broadly, on “the aspirational class.” The book says that hipsters are just the poorest members of that class. Ha, ha!

Now I can rest. My prejudices have been confirmed. (By science!)

The driving idea behind The Sum of Small Things isn’t new. The book uses “Bourdieu’s basic thesis” – that “everyday cultural forms create and maintain social status” (p. 55) – to explain how elitists separate themselves from other people today, as opposed to how they did so fifty or one hundred years ago. So, instead of focusing on how rich people lived in mansions and carried fancy walking sticks – costly, conspicuous behaviors that helped them to maintain their social status – the book talks about foodies ordering brunch (which is cheaper but still conspicuous to do, or at least conspicuous enough).

Bourdieu’s thesis is true but awful to read about. Bourdieu was a hideous writer. I know because I own his famous book. And everything written after him follows his lead.

This new book is only slightly more readable. Here’s another passage (again, p. 55):

The accrual of different types of knowledge and the sharing of cultural capital mean that the new elites use this information to buy particular things or act in particular ways and to further solidify their position. Or, as Khan writes, “Culture is a resource used by elites to recognize one another and distribute opportunities on the basis of the display of appropriate attributes.” Nail polish color is more subtle and less expensive than yachts and handbags, but the choice to wear one color over another involves acquiring knowledge as to what is aesthetically appropriate and appreciated by one’s peer group.

Not lovely.

Here is all you need to know. Hipsters are bad. They promote a culture of snobbery and exclusion, even as they believe themselves to be doing good. Don’t be a hipster. The best thing you can do, when eating out, is to eat fast food.

Why I am not a hipster

Toronto and the dead raccoon.

I understand a part of this. After all, my family did honor a dead mouse.

On the other hand … I really don’t think this is very nice.

Hipsters

What I miss from Xanga are the xangazons: the thumbnail pictures of movies, books, and music. Like this one:

[not a thumbnail picture]

Currently:

the bird and the bee

The Bird and the Bee

“Fucking Boyfriend”

Or like this one:

Currently:

Interpreting the Masters, Volume 1: A Tribute to Daryl Hall and John Oates

The Bird and the Bee

“Private Eyes”

Before you pounce:

Listening to hipster music doesn’t make me a hipster. I enjoy reading certain Japanese novels, but that doesn’t make me Japanese (not even in spirit). An outsider can wallow in foreign ditches.

One time, Sabby and I went to Chicago and the female Sabby pointed at some youths and was like, look at those hipsters, hee hee, and we giggled at them. And then she said, John-Paul, you’re a natural hipster. And I was like, that’s impossible; being a hipster requires too much artifice; naturalness precludes it. (That is, hipsters can’t be genuinely cool.)

And she was like, well, I have in mind your sweaters. I said, you mean the sweaters that I bought at Old Navy, that super-hip store. Hee hee, she giggled, no, I mean your hideous, old, second-hand sweaters, the ones hipsters would like. Oh, I said, you mean the sweaters I’ve been using regularly since the 1990s (it isn’t my fault that it took so long for fashion to catch up). Hee hee, she giggled (all red in the face).

If somebody wants to make an entire album of Hall and Oates tributes, I can enjoy those songs. It’s difficult even for hipsters to ruin that music, despite its having been recalled into fashionableness.

The “Boyfriend” song just sounds pretty.

George Saunders

His old hipster voice repulses me. But I’m also comforted, because while I’m reading George Saunders I’m thinking, I could do this; in a way, I already do this. (How: Embed colloquialisms into strange contexts; transcribe each auditory quirk using punctuation that respects the ear, or logic, but injures the eye.)

No, these days, the stylist I envy is Michael Dummett. His sentences are enormous but never too long: comma after relentless comma gently cushions each from crashing. Read the preface and introduction to Dummett’s opus; download the entire book here (would that be legal? Would it be moral? On Tuesday, at the bus station, I refused a beggar a dollar, on the ground that begging is against the law; when the beggar asked if I always obey the law, I said, Yeah, pretty much. But now I’m encouraging readers to ignore the law). Again: Read Dummett’s preface and introduction; enjoy his ire, in a tome on sense and reference, quantifiers, proper names, etc. (and what a lovely old typeface!).

I’m not sure I believe what I wrote in the first paragraph. It doesn’t quite describe what’s so weird about George Saunders. His interior monologues, for example. The low-prole boy might be chained up in the yard; the low-prole kitchen table might have a tire on it; those details aren’t so weird. What’s weird is the low-prole mother’s private thought-stream: not low-prole dialect but Standard English, no, worse, Hipster English, with silent punctuation (slashes) intruding into her thoughts. 

So what she’d love, for tonight? Was getting the pup sold, putting the kids to bed early, and then, Jimmy seeing her as all organized in terms of the pup, they could mess around and afterward lie there making plans, and he could do that laugh/snort thing in her hair again.

Why that laugh/snort meant so much to her she had no freaking idea. It was just one of the weird things about the Wonder That Was Her, ha ha ha.

Freaking, ending in i-n-g, not in i-n-’. And the ha ha ha echoes the language of the other woman in the story, the foil, the middle-class woman. The low-prole woman uses language above her station. That’s weird. It’s not like the scene in King of the Hill when Boomhauer talks “normal”; no, it’s as if Saunders were saying, I’ll “humanize” you by lending you a voice you’d never have, not even in your imagination, ha ha ha. And so we’re always conscious of the author talking over – drowning out! – the character.