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Archives for February 2011

“A good way to get et up by hogs…” A couple of thoughts after seeing Winter’s Bone for a second time.

[Sort of spoilery.  Read at your own risk.  I would hate to ruin this film for anyone.]

The first time, the overwhelming dread that suffused nearly every scene served to obscure the fact that Ree’s conversation with her crazy, silent mother – “Just this one time, help me.  Tell me what I should do.” – is a prayer. To an apparently silent, possibly absent God.  But of course, Ree’s prayer is answered.  All she has to do is throw caution to the winds, sacrifice her body, perform acts that most people wouldn’t think themselves capable of, and abandon her own self to the point where she can say “Help me or kill me” with perfect equanimity.  Then lo and behold…

Hey, do y’all remember Deep Furrows?

He now posts at Cahiers Péguy, one of them group blogs that I hear is all the rage now. Observe:

So on vacation, on lunch break, in the evenings,
and weekends, get together with friends to
learn appreciation for music and drama;
learn politics and philosophy and economics and
the sciences.
For Christ’s sake,
for humanity’s sake,
for yourself and your children,
and their children.

Perhaps we should start an inter-interstate collaborative and/or gang war with them.

(Fred, I tracked you down via your comment on Mr. Lickona’s archival post about Sideways.)

“Thus Ponce De Leon’s Pascua Florida…”

Plus ca change…

– by Jeff Danziger, sometime during the Reagan presidency. is dead … long live!

The above image is a screen capture of just before the hydrogen bomb was detonated and lots of new strange and wonderful things began to happen in sideways world. (No, not that sideways world.)

(Hee hee hee … ho ho ho! Do you see what I linked to there? Do you see???!!!)


Pace, ICP – magnets are amazing and all, but when Maureen Dowd writes a column about the Catholic Church with this little invective and/or mockery – and one that touches on confession, and sin, and technology, no less – well, that’s a &*$@#%!^&**@#! miracle, yo.

Small world: I know Fr. Scheidt. He was kind enough to give Book Two a read through back in the day. There is hope.

The Knights of Columbus

About this time, the members of St. Anthony’s Knights of Columbus council decided to intervene. Their pastor was rattled by a series of accusations and now his hands were sticky with too much evidence and not enough excuses. The bishop was coming to determine whether the parish was economically “viable” for being included in the pastoral plan that would fold a number of local parishes into one entity, all being forced to attend Mass at the gigantically phallic St. Rita Church across town. The cardinal’s men had been around for the entire week, harrying the BINGO-players, razzing the altar boys, insinuating themselves into the PCCW Tuesday Luncheon (Jello mayonaisse salad with melba toast), trying to prize information from anyone and everyone who would talk. Worst of all, the kegerator in the Knight’s Hall was on the fritz again – and this time it looked as if it was going to escape its mortal refrigeration coil once and for all.  Realizing with that uncanny sort of  knowledge (the kind you just can’t get in a can) that things were coming to a head and the approaching storm would no doubt break over their own uncapped heads  just as the weekend’s “Blowfest” – St. Anthony’s fundraising bizarre – would be hitting its full stride, to a man the Knights of Columbus Monsignor Alan De Beers Council #101 decided to act quickly, decisively and with unanimiity. Whipped into a froth of resigned excitement, as only one can after finally and fully engaging in a matter of grave concern, they let Father know that he could count on them.  Appearing after Mass on the steps of St. Anthony’s where Father was greeting the enemic crowd of worshippers, for their part, they said, although not wont to undertake unilateral initiatives as a regular council policy, mind you, in this one case, in this one instance, desperate and dire as circumstances were,  they would, with his permission, agree to keep the beer tent open until 9 p.m, instead of, as in years past, the customary 7:35 p.m.

But first…

…he was careful to take the matter to prayer. “Help me, Blessed Mother, to be a wise shepherd to my wayward flock…”

As news of the scandal spread to the highest corridors of power…

The Pope vowed to pry the lid off of this whole secretive mess.

The Parish drunk…

Suddenly, St. Athony Abate Parish member Aristotle Carpazzio didn’t feel quite so ostracized by the greater parish community. Although he hadn’t touched a drop in months, it seemed only now that the rest of the parish – and especially the Ladies Sodality – were beginning to take a shine to him. Whether this was due to some sort of domestic “Road to Damascus” experience on their part, whereby the scales of castigation and prejudice fell from their eyes, or because Aristotle felt – almost literally – like a fish out of water, he couldn’t say. What he did know is that, despite the rudderless drift of the pastorage – so tragically and recently hooked in the gills by the barbs of fallen sin – the whisky tasted as good as ever. With a pert grin on his face, he also knew something else: as long as Father Angelica was persona non gratis around the parish, he could go back to this Jacob’s Well of good fortune, as it were, as often as he liked….

Penitent, Fr. Angelica returns to his training…

Memento mori, Father. Memento mori.

If Ladies Sodality gets their way…

…Fr. Angelica will be sent before the Cardinal. He’ll know how to handle the Father’s wayward spirits…

Ladies Sodality Responds…

Filled with disgust and emptied of anything remotely resembling compassion, the Ladies Sodality took the news as a personal reproach of all they stood for and believed.  Greeting Father Angelica at the rectory door, the grim demeanor of each parish blue-hair was underscored by their collective attitude of silent recrimination.

Like this, Potter?

SCANDAL! Fr. Angelico caught in flagrante delicious with church secretary Mrs. Butterworth. Congregation sighs, “At least it wasn’t that sweet little altar boy Honeybear.”

The Bloody 20th Century – UPDATE

A noted historian of Nazi Germany reconsiders the bloodiness of the 20th Century – and – gasp! – even suggests that Western liberals might have been enjoying their favorite comfort food –  pointing up the horrors of Nazism as the sine qua non of evil – while ignoring the Ukrainian elephant in Eastern Europe’s livingroom.

It seems those wacky anti-redsters dreaming of making love to Claire Booth Luce in a fallout shelter might have been right about at least one thing – the communists really DID eat their children – or at least forced others to do so…

And what’s more,  Mr. Zmirak provides a sort of philosophical follow-up punch – demonstrating that if Mr. Rosenbaum’s review above tells us anything, it tells us that Descartes’ divorce of soul and body has had far-reaching implications – and complications.

But then, perhaps coming full circle, there is still this small matter of the dignity of the human person lingering in the air like the unmistakably stench of burning flesh . And now, the generation rising (scroll down to page 12!) from the ashes of the “Bloodlands” are taking seriously,  as Zmirak notes , “the Christian notion of the person mak[ing] inconvenient demands — when it specifies that suffering is preferable to sin…”

Happy Birthday, Jonathan Potter

Potter Noster built
House of Words, haunted by Christ
and the Holy Ghost.

It all got started at the Mandarin Gate … on this night 13 years ago

Look at How Pretty the Moon Is

The Kollektiv brings the funk

So, when it’s time for new avatars, guys, this is what we should use.


(Via the blog Mr. Potter is so enamored with.)