Maggie's Farm

Rants are sometimes therapeutic, aren't they? Vanderleun caught our friend Dr. Bob's recent jeremiad. 

Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose. I think we (slightly) grey hairs were saying such things in the cave-man days...not that such things do not need to be said.

An odalisque is a Moslem's slave concubine, but all guys could use a bunch of them around the place, as long as they have sweet and agreeable temperaments and are willing to give the wife a hand with the chores. Plus no burkhas required when they are lounging around ye olde wood-stove-heated New England harem. 

Ingres' Odalisque (1814).

The modern version:

h/t, AVI

A free ad for this Vermont photographer's site:

It's been a long time since our Aliyah pal has given us a look at his new life in Israel.

Holy Blood  - Part I - Oct 2008

Being two days before Yom Kippur, I set my gyroscope for the Shuk.  I travel gyroscopically to reach each station of my pilgrimage: the butcher for chicken, the Arab green grocer; the Menahem Begin booth for fruit; the Ethiopian's for quinoa and spices. In the shuk, nothing should distract me.  But, the shuk is mostly distractions.
   

This day, my 'scope went off its gimbals.  A small breech in the shuk wall beckoned.  It was on Agrippas Street, just past the rugelach bakery and before the Arab knupfe and sweets seller. First I notice the two girl soldiers guarding the opening.  Instead of bustle, an occasional person or a couple entered or left solemnly. The two steps up was half-ramped with rough cement, the stuff what the Romans invented.
   

Transformed to flaneur, I entered, hesitantly. An open courtyard with three tables forming an open square not quite greets me. In fact, greeting doesn't come to mind here.  Only after a few moments does an undertone of pungence, an indistinct rankness fogged about me – comes and goes. I realize later that this is the fragrance of fowl death.  I see a trio of pairs behind each table and perhaps five people before them, one young religious couple milling centrally or posed before the tables of judgment.  Matters dawn on me. I see the kippa'd man withdraw a live chicken from a coop. He has a deft manner of holding up to the customer. One-handed, he pinions the wings from their base (our shoulder) behind the bird; unflappable these wings are now.  I hear peeps and realize that these are almost chickens; oversized chicks, pubertal birds.  The chicken, while white, has a besmirched breast, as if it has not yet come clean. It soon must.  Of the young couple, the woman, hair-covered, bends forward, but a bit. The chicken-wielder passes the bird in an elliptically orbit and just at an angle near the woman's head, like some off-centered rings of Saturn. I see his lips move.  Then, he pulls back this feathered sattelite and deftly again, releases thumb and forefinger from the wings to hold back the chicken's head, goose-necking the bird. In his other hand, he wields a straightrazor, similar to the old types once leather-stropped, but this has replaceable blades, like what Gillette invented.  He makes a gentle slit, much less to it than I thought might be.  And does the bird a header into one of eight zinc funnels sticking into the table before him. Little is seen from these funnels above – I think I spot a few feathers ascend to heavenward, but are brought back by wind and gravity before they get too far. I think I spy the legs kicking, but perhaps this is imagination. I do see the blood funneling down below. The couple, looking relieved or calmed, perhaps certain that at least the woman's sins have been dispelled, leave hand-in-hand.  Money exchanged hands, but I never saw this.
   

Heade is considered a "member" of the Hudson River School of landscape artists. This is Thunderstorm on Narragansett Bay (1868).

Our own Dr. Bliss and our net friend AVI are our go-to people on tribalism.

For better or worse, tribalism is in our blood. It probably was essential for human survival, and probably still is for non-human primate survival. Probably for us, too, if we value our own culture at all. I do value mine - my culture and my subculture.

AVI takes a look at Tribal Elders, Young Turks, and politics.

Seed Time and Harvest (1937)

From a post by AVI:

I'll tell you something about lying from having to deal with it so much all day (not just my patients, but their agencies and families as well). When someone refuses to take any responsibility, blaming everything on someone else, they are usually lying. If they thought they were only 10 or 20% at fault they would pony up, lay out the facts, and trust that most observers would get it right. If they are 50-70% at fault they would admit to some responsibility and try to spin the impression on the rest. Only when people are well over 70% at fault do they have to take a reverse strategy and avoid the facts and try to construct a simple narrative of blame that they hope catches on with people. When people make categorical statements of blame, it's like Honest John's Used Cars.

A word of caution. Some politicians have perfected statements of appearing to take responsibility in their introductory comments but quickly moving on to zero blame for them.

Thanks to Vanderleun for finding Graphs on the death of Marxism, postmodernism, and other stupid academic fads. A quote:

"The sudden decline of all the big-shot theories you'd study in a literary theory or critical theory class is certainly behind the recent angst of arts and humanities grad students. Without a big theory, you can't pretend you have specialized training and shouldn't be treated as such -- high school English teachers may be fine with that, but if you're in grad school, that's admitting you failed as an academic. You want a good reputation. Isn't it strange, though, that no replacement theories have filled the void? That's because everyone now understands that the whole thing was a big joke, and aren't going to be suckered again anytime soon."

Here's one of his graphs, this one on academic references to Deconstruction:

Reasons to visit Venice's little sister: Giotto, Menabuoi, and Donatello. This is Giotto's Capella Scrovegni (Arena Chapel) in Padua:

Johnny Appleseed - John Chapman - was an interesting character: an ascetic, a Swedenborgian missionary, and a nurseryman who had little interest in making money.

Read about him and his unusual life at a good Wiki entry.