Where Man Is King

In Wellington, New Zealand, a deranged, runaway SUV, unhappy with life, distraught and humiliated by criticism of its appetite and size, and unable to afford therapy because of the high price of gasoline, went berserk and crashed itself into a man’s most hallowed space — his toilet.

While he was on it!

This is a violation too far, this unwarranted attack on a man’s sacred place, the Mecca of his personal life, where he reads the sports pages and contemplates the lousy day awaiting him while experiencing the blessed relief of elimination. Nowhere else in the world does such a place exist. Only in the man’s toilet, on his throne.

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The question is basic chicken or the egg. Does contemporary leftism make one a wimp or are natural born wimps naturally attracted to contemporary leftism?

Bertram “Jimmy” James

I got to wondering about this when reading about the death a few weeks ago in Great Britain of RAF Squadron Leader Bertram James, who had been shot down by the Luftwaffe in June 1940 and subsequently captured by the Germans. During his five year imprisonment, James (called “Jimmy”) tried to escape thirteen times from a number of different stalags.

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Giuseppe Di Stefano.

The world is emptier and diminished with the death last week of the great tenor, Giuseppe Di Stefano. A patch of beauty has been taken from us. The circumstances of his passing are too tragic to contemplate — a beating by some thugs in Kenya years ago that put this wonderful man and tenor into a coma that eventually resulted in death.

That the final years of a man who brought so much pleasure was so unnecessarily painful is disturbing. We expect everyone to die sooner or later, but to die like this adds an urgency to our grief, as if we can’t grieve enough.

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No, not the lovable little ardvaark on PBS, nor the redemptive alcoholic played by Dudley Moore in the film of the same name. I’m talking about my Arthur, a thirty-seven year old writer who lives somewhere in Los Angeles and who seems to have become attached to me. It might be love, I don’t know.

This is personal.

We all have Arthurs in our lives. You’ll find them at school, at work, in organizations you belong to, maybe even in your neighborhood. I met my Arthur at a privately run writer’s website.

The site is interesting and valuable except for the political forums which, as a gathering spot for Hollywood writers, is overwhelmingly liberal. Many of the conservative voices have left and the political forum is mostly a liberal circle jerk. It’s smart people sitting around patting one another on the back. Okay, fair enough.

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