The 35th Precinct

Sometimes you see a book on a shelf and just know you're in for a hot dose of hyperintellectual, self-flagellating, egotistical white dude bullshit, and boy, did I get my money's worth with Constantine's Sword by James Carroll. If you ever wanted 616 pages of some narcissistic old white guy's thoughts on how abysmally Roman Catholicism has treated Jews, this is the book for you. But wait! You'll also get, as a free, super-thrilling bonus these gripping anecdotes:

-That time he used to have this Jewish friend named Peter Seligman. Don't worry; this never goes anywhere, and he soon drops Peter(who dodged a goddamn bullet, if you ask me), but hey, he needs to prove his solidarity and tolerance cred somehow.

-His weird Oedipal issues with his mother. Frankly, this whole sequence made me need a shower. No, sir, I'm pretty sure most sons don't want to hump their moms, nor do they get lusty thoughts about a statue's neck. I'm pretty sure you're a far-flung outlier on that score. At least, I hope to God you are. If you're not, then that explains a whole lot about men.

-His navel-gazing ex post facto guilt about tainting his children with the horrors of the Holocaust by taking them to Germany in 1990. In a passage so overwrought that you can practically see him angling for some Hollywood studio to option the movie rights, he describes how he re-enacted the last race from Chariots of Fire(with the dramatic addition of a few anguished, Vaderian Noooooooooos for good measure)to rescue his children from the Holocaust-evoking act of...standing on the former spot of Hitler's bunker. In his mind, the mere act of standing on such unhallowed ground confers the a case of zombie Nazi cooties that can only be cleansed by him yodeling like a jackass as he sprints across the former no-man's land of Checkpoint Charlie.

I haven't got the foggiest, friends, but I'd bet a dollar that that scene was the one he fantasized about getting an Oscar for the movie adaptation of his magnum opus. He, no doubt, would be played by Liam Neeson, and his acceptance speech of love and unity and ecumenism wouldn't leave a dry eye in the house.

-An interminable session of him standing, pensive and penitent, before the cross erected by well-meaning but misguided Christians at Auschwitz. That scene frames the entire story, in fact, and I think that's why the whole book sticks in my craw. Mr. Carroll makes the point again and again that Christians have set themselves as superior to Jews since the fourth century, to the world's detriment and the incalculable harm of the latter and claims that he has a plan to redress this wrong, and yet, in the end, it's all about Catholicism. All about him. His guilt. His sorrow. His dreams for religious healing and unity. Even in his plan to remove the cross from Auschwitz, the Jewish people are positions as witnesses to Christian piety and penance. He says the Jews should not be expected to forgive the Christians, but it's clear that it very much is expected, that he hopes they will sing hosannas to this act of pious contrition.

The entire book carries the whiff or performative self-awareness and abasement that borders on the crass. For all his purported concern for Jews and their suppression and displacement from history, there are very few of their voices in this book, and those that are accord with his perspective. Of course. We're meant to marvel at his perspicacity and erudition as we wade through his tortured syntax in search of a point, and I warn you, many are the times you will lose yourself in the coherence-throttling thicket of interrupted clauses designed to add depth to his sniveling introspection.

A moment to self-absorption and delusions of grandeur, it's nonetheless a worthy read for those interested in the development and evolution of the schism between Judaism and Christianity. Just try not to step into the piles of self-congratulation. They're sticky.

It's only 7PM, but I'm so sleepy, and I have no idea why, since all I did today was return a book to the library and go out to lunch for salmon and a small, sad sweet potato that rendered two bites of "meat". The heat, I think. It's 79 degrees in the house even with the wall unit chugging along at full bore, and it's so stickily oppressive that it's like sitting in a bowl of lukewarm soup and breathing through a damp rag.

Ah, summer in the South.

I finished No Ordinary Time: Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt: The Home Front in World War II by Doris Kearns Goodwin. As a wee criplet, I was in awe of FDR. Here was a guy in a wheelchair like me! And he was President! And he led the country in WWII, when we emerged as the most powerful nation on earth. Heady stuff for a kid who felt smothered and isolated in a world of strict supervision and well-meant paternalistic overprotection by people who told me almost everything that interested or excited me was too dangerous for someone like me. Better to stay here with this nice lady and learn how to roll pennies instead.

FDR still belongs in the pantheon of the greatest presidents of all time, but after reading this, he seems far more fallible than I thought him when my choices for role models were him and...him. He wasn't a bad person; indeed, in many ways, he was a good man--compassionate, charming, level-headed in a crisis, and firm in his decisions once made. But he was a terrible husband to Eleanor, and Ms> Goodwin would do everyone a service if she stopped bending over backwards to defend his shoddy treatment of Eleanor and his glaringly-obvious parade of affairs with other women.

"Oh, but Roosevelt was under tremendous stress, and Eleanor just wouldn't stop hectoring him about dying Jews or oppressed Negroes, so of course he turned to other, more tractable women for understanding and companionship, abloo bloo bloo." Stop. There was no excuse for his giddy philandering, and I suspect that if Eleanor had been more traditionally feminine and less outspoken, she wouldn't be beating the sympathy drum so vigorously. But because Eleanor was so independent and awkward when it came to performing the expected roles of a woman of the time, it's acceptable to portray her as the braying harridan who refused to give her poor husband a moment's peace, and FDR was the poor, long-suffering man who was sad because his wife didn't want to serve cocktails at his poker parties and laugh at his jokes and stories.

Please.

And while I'm on the harangue, stop playing coy about whether or not FDR was having dalliances with his secretary or Lucy Rutherfurd or the Princess of Belgium. Just because a man has polio doesn't mean he can't engage in sex, and even if he can't, that doesn't stop the desire. If they weren't sleeping together, they were trying what they could, and her assertion that he was too sick by the time Lucy returned to his life doesn't hold water. Clearly she couldn't say definitively with no concrete proof, but it's obvious to anyone with even the flimsiest grasp of human nature that there was a romance going on, and it's disingenuous to pooh-pooh such a likelihood.

In sum, while FDR was a smart badass who brought the U.S. through WWII like an absolute unit, he was also a randy old goat doing his best to get his roll on with a whole lot of ladies who weren't his wife, and it doesn't besmirch his legacy to say so.

This weekend is scheduled to be gorgeous, but the rain and storms are predicted to return on Monday, so I'm going to enjoy the peace and sunshine while it lasts. It's Father's Day weekend, so the roads are clogged with campers and RVs as men celebrate their fathers and fatherhood by grilling steaks by the lake and getting absolutely shitfaced on cheap beer. Whee! Such are the rituals of men. No fools we, Roomie and I are staying home and making tacos, and maybe later tonight, we'll make some popcorn and finally get around to watching How to Train Your Dragon: The Hidden World. Or maybe an episode of Star Trek: Discovery.

Speaking of which, Anson Mount and Shazad Latif are coming to Dragoncon. Hell, yes! Finally, hot men to happily perv over. I don't perv at them; I'n no crass ogre, but while they're signing my glossy and making small talk, I have no shame in getting an eyeful of square jaws and chiseled cheeks and soft, brown eyes. Anson Mount is just flat hot, and I would ride his authoritative yet compassionate and loyal Pike like a well-balanced pogo stick. Shazad Latif actually does little for me as Lt. Tyler, but show me a headshot, and I need a fainting couch.

So, that's three tables to visit while I'm at the Walk of Fame. If I'm lucky, maybe I can get them all on Friday morning/afternoon and not have to brave the sweating crush on Saturday or Sunday.

I finished The First Crusade: A New History by Thomas Asbridge. It was short, as history books go, but it's an excellent introductory volume for someone interested in the Crusades, and its enthusiastic, engaging style leavens what could be a weighty, bitter subject. I would've liked to know more about some of the principals involved--Raymond of Toulouse, Bohemond, and Godfrey of Bouillion, for instance--but I suspect that if he had provided more detail, the book would've been derailed from its intended purpose, which was a brief exploration of the First Crusade and how it contributed to the modern conflict between Christianity and Islam. That being so, I would be delighted if he were to turn his hand, proverbial pen at the ready, to a more comprehensive study of either the siege of Antioch or the one at Jerusalem itself.

The Modern Mayberry Well War was over before it started, much to my surprise. Maybe King Miser is too old to squabble over every copper farthing in his moneybin these days, or maybe he saw which way the neighborhood wind was blowing with four neighbors arrayed against his tight-fisted impulses. Whatever the reason, the pump has been repaired with a new capacitor and a new well tank. Our share amounts to $120, which is a bummer, but we have water. And actual pressure. Apparently, the capacitor had been failing for a while and delivering less and less water until it simply threw in the towel. But no more! I took a shower this morning, and there was no fluctuation in pressure. It's a whole new world at Che Guera.

I finished Death Under the Dryer, Fethering Mysteries #8 by Simon Brett yesterday. As usual, it was a comfortable British cozy featuring mismatched best friends, Carole and Jude. The mystery was serviceable enough, but it's the interplay and juxtaposition of these two on which the story hangs, and they are a delight together. As much as I wish I were the effortless social butterfly of Jude, who connects with everyone at the first rush of breath, I'm more of a Carole, alas, and I can't help but sympathize with her loneliness and awkward stodginess and wistful but fruitless desire to be other than she is.

( Death Under the Dryer--Major SPOILERS )

Today is John Wick 3 day. Woot! Roomie has toddled off to hit the ATM and go to the store in search of fresh ground beef and pico de gallo and whatever else his little eye spies. Then it's taco time.

Did you know imperforate anus was a thing? Me neither until I read Dr. Mutter's Marvels. Those are the nuggets of knowledge you acquire when you read medical biographies. Nor did I realize that surgeries prior to the 1830s were conducted without any form or anesthesia. No, thanks, I'll just die. Or limp. Or have those hemorrhoids. The lack of anesthetic before its invention was no one's fault, but I can't believe that there were some doctors who opposed its use because it contravened the will of God. Okay. So, according to these learned gentlemen, God is a sadistic child who delights in the suffering of His creations. Wow. That's a ringing endorsement of the Almighty.

Before I read this, I believed Mutter operated on the disabled and maimed and gathered his deformed specimens because he thought they were less than human, but it was the opposite. He treated them because he believed in their humanity and their right to dignity, and because most other doctors wrote them off as incurable "monsters." His patients sought him out for his kindness and humanity, and they waited days or weeks to consult with him, and his desire to help as many of them as he could contributed to his death.

I'm not sure how displaying their posthumous remains to a morbidly-curious public contributed to their ultimate dignity, but no one is perfect. I misjudged the man, and I am heartily sorry for it.

At least the awful Charles D. Meigs got his miserable comeuppance after years of torturing pregnant women and calling it God's will.

Despite all my bellyaching about it, I finished Marlfox last night, and also despite my bellyaching, I got sucked in. They might be repetitive and trite, but it's hard not to get attached to the characters and the sweet simplicity of abbey life. I was crushed when it looked like Skipper was no more. I'm too old for this; why am I getting verklempt over anthropomorphized animals? Except for baby Dwopple. He can choke.

Roomie and I have plans to kip to the library to pick up a hold and stop at the grocery store for something to nosh today, though the pickings will be slim with our straitened finances. The last day before the next check is always the worst because my stomach and my means are brutally and diametrically opposed.

I've known about the Cut and Run series for a long time, but never read it because my to-read pile is already longer than my lifespan. After hearing about the angstfest that was Touch and Geaux, I decided to give it a read.

Everything went swimmingly at first. I was Team Zane when the truth about Ty's assignment came to light. What an awful thing, to think, that the man you loved and wanted to marry had been lying the whole time. Who knows how much of what passed between you was true? I was wholly unsurprised when Zane went sailing off the wagon, and I didn't blame him when he decided to have a go at rearranging Ty's face. I'd want that, too, and fuck Ty running, the shitgibbon.

But then...

Look, if you think your lover is a lying shitheel who's used you for his own shady ends and want to punt his nutsack into his eyebrows, be my guest, but rape is not okay. Ever. And yes, I know Abi swears it was consensual. Bunk. Getting hard does not equal consent, and it was loathesomely obvious that Ty let Zane rape him because he thought he deserved it. Abi may have intended to write dubcon, but what ended up on the page was just a flat-out, dag-nasty rape that was condoned by the text. All of this was made worse by Zane calling Ty a whore(and not in the dirtybadwrong sexytimes sense, either, but in the most demeaning possible)and patently enjoying the ugly detachment of it.

And I'm supposed to view Zane as the hero? You've got to be joking. Ty was wrong for lying and deserved to get dumped. Zane was a monster.

And yet, they're making tender, urgent love again ten pages later. Fuck. You. That is not how people work, nor should they. The entire scene made my skin crawl and killed any desire I might have had for Ty and Zane to get the happily ever after. They did, it seems, and it makes me want to gag. The Laura marrying her rapist plot on General Hospital has been rightly pilloried as foul romanticization of rape, but apparently, it's totes okay if it's two hot dudes. Ty just had to pay for his sin by taking a right good fucking, and look what he made poor hurting Zane do.

Brb, going to dip myself in bleach.

If all the Poirot books are going to be narrated by Hastings, it's going to be a long slog. While TV!Hastings is a charming doofus with a soft heart and an inflated sense of honor, book!Hastings is a prig and an insufferable bore. I know it's fiction, but who falls so in love with a woman you've met a grand total of twice, a woman who lies to you and abuses your trust, that you'd betray your best friend to help her escape the justice that, at that point, is due? This dolt, apparently. Oh, there's some token, morose maundering about having the death of an innocent man on his conscience, but he doesn't do anything about it other than hector the friend he has betrayed to save the hapless Jack Renauld from the guillotine. Because what else is Poirot for than to clean up his mess? All foreigners should know their place and excuse an Englishman's folly as long as it was committed for honorable reasons.

If Hastings died of cholera, I wouldn't be sorry.

I did like that it was Dulcie who saved the day with her l33t acrobatic skills. Maybe if Hastings does me a favor and pops his clogs, Dulcie can step into them, and she and Poirot can save the day together.

The brownouts have been frequent this winter, and so I am in the market for a UPS for Roomie's computer. I'm leaning toward an APC, if anyone out there is still reading this, any advice would be appreciated because this is my first foray into the arena of supplementary electronics. As is his proud custom, Roomie is being as helpful as a sack of fertilizer about this. Even if I buy one, I suspect it'll just gather dust in a corner because he'll refuse to plug it in and let it charge, lest it explode or meltdown or trigger a half a dozen catastrophes of the imagination. I still have two tablets I've never used because he won't plug them in to charge. I would, but none of the plugs are within my reach. They're either too high or too low. Ah, the joys of crippledom, when your enjoyment of the tings you own depends wholly on others' beneficence.

I read Longmire #5, AKA Junkyard Dogs, last night. More a character study than a case, it was a solid read, nonetheless. Vic Moretti is becoming a delight, as is Saizorbitoria, and Henry has always been a favorite. I wouldn't care if Ruby fell into a plothole and never emerged, though. She isn't bad, per se, but her overbearing vigilance and meddling in Walt's personal affairs set my teeth on edge. Yes, Walt makes stupid, macho decisions about his health, but they are his to make, and I'm sick of the trope that it's a woman's place, indeed, her sacred, betitted duty, to go behind his back and make clandestine appointments with doctors. The first time she did it in my office, she'd be out on her overweening ass.

The case was there, but nothing special, and the end was unclear. Was Gina the same girl who shot Deputy Cook when she was twelve, or was she her granddaughter? Was she neither? Was Felix Poulson the man whose ass Cook was kicking for strapping her to the truck rack in her underwear? I think we're meant to believe so since Sancho mentions three teardrops on Felix's body in the morgue, and the latter was only convicted of two shootings. Maybe he mistakenly thought Cook was dead since he'd been shot in the face and back.

Light on mystery, but big on character, and more than enough to propel me to the next one.