Posted by
t.m. vecchio on Sunday, December 21, 2008 3:35:15 PM
I enjoy people who think what they say and then say what they they think. Their feelings, on the other hand, don't have any hands, so they don't matter (or come into view, as Hussel might say). Regardless, fari quae sentiat is certainly the mark of a bold person. And fortune tends to favor the bold. That is why, perhaps, I esteem bold people who think out their thoughts without any worry or concern about how popular or well-received they might be. And that is why I sing the praises of such people. Granted, I sing poorly, at least for the most part. But I do have my moments. In this delightful but forgettable blogification of random but semi-organized thoughts, I wish to sing (and not lament) some slight praises of certainly defined guuurls.
There are, I can admit, men for whom I could sing praiseworthy praises as well. But that would only be another blog for another day and time. Herein I wish to commend--even though they hardly need my commendation (free of charge as it may be)--three guuurls for their insight, their humor, their fine moral-political-cultural indignation and their ability to express themselves in various books, columns and speeches they have given through and over the last several years. Whilst two of these guuurls are younger than I am, I look up (or down) to their youth, vigor and vitality. Whilst the other guuurl, however, is older than I am (by about two years), I look down (or up) to her elderism, vigor and vitality. Even though one earned an undergraduate degree from Cornell, one from Dartmouth and one from Oberlin College, I won't, don't and can't hold that (at least not steadily) against them. After all, they were young, impressionable and naive when they went (away) to college. What did they know and how did they know it? (Being the exception, however, I cannot relate. Sorry.)
It should be more than obvious by this paragraph to whom I am referring when I write about these three guuurls. (No, they're not the second, third or tenth coming of "Charlie's Angels," because, among other things, they have functioning, operating brains and immaterial minds that refract sense impressions and tussle with innate ideas [of the Cartesian kind, I'm sure] in a most gratifying way.) Therefore there is no reason under the sun or moon to explicity state the names of these three dandified guuurls. But in the interests of the unenlightened and mentally-politically-morally challenged, here goes, in order of birth date: A.H. Coulter, L.A. Ingraham and M. Malkin. Yet what is in a name (or an initial)? Whether one takes these three guuurls seriously or comically (or somewhere in between) matters not even a half an iota to me. I take them to be real, as in genuine, as in authentic, as in principled, as in structured, as in orderly, as in polemical, as in earnest, as in humorous, as in satirical, as in not quite hysterical, as in singular (and not plural), as in educated but not inculcated by the socially obtuse and culturally condemned denizens of liberal post-modernity. Goody, goody and more goody for them.
Even if they can't speak, write or understand (much) Latin, that's okay with me. I don't begrudge Annie and Laura for having juris doctorate degrees. After all, we all have our handicaps and crosses to bear. I understand this. Crescit sub pondere virtus; domat omnia virtus. And, of course, we all have, through our formal and informal educations, a certain kind of deformation we experience whilst in the process. Again, I am nothing if not understanding, sympathetic, empathetic and even a tad compassionate. Oh, and patient. I have a lot of patience. (God gave it to me and I finally took it.) But, then again, I suppose I have a lot of patience to lose.
But I choose to hear what these three guuurls have to say and write, and I think it only right for me let anyone (and I'm not anyone, it's true, for I am truly and most humbly no one) know this, that is, if they wish to know this. Consequently I own various books they have written (among the 250 books in my personal but memorial library). One day--and I know that day may never arrive--I would like each and every single one of them to sign her very personal (and legal) name on a page of at least one of the books she has created, constructed, written and submitted. Try as I might, I can't get a personal autograph from Plato or Aristotle on one of their works, so I'll settle happily for an autographical signature by one, two or three of these guuurlish ladies. I only hope I am not fooled here, like I've been in the past, because I made a promise to myself that I won't get fooled again, which is not easy, I admit, since for so long I've been content to be the fool on the hill and/or a real nowhere man. I make no allusions to illusions; I only want to verify, confirm and experience, if only once, the really real authoresses who stand or sit under the words they compose on the written page or screen. Since I can no longer hope to die before I get old, I do hope to die after I get old (and gray). But I still like every minute of the day. And the creatures and things that go bump in the night.