pod people

Maybe it’s just me, but increasingly I see leftists as Puritanical scolds telling me what I can and cannot do. The only difference between them and the Republican scolds of my youth is that they read Noam Chomsky instead of The Reader's Digest. Sometimes they remind me of the zombies from Night of the Living Dead, marching with arms outstretched and eyes wide open, chanting --

You. Should. Not. Eat. Animals.

You. Should. Not. Use. Animals. For. Testing. Or Fur. Or skin. Or anything. That might. Benefit. Humans.

You. Should. Not. Smoke. In the bar. In the restaurant. Anywhere. On account. Of. My. Asthma.

You. Should. Not. Discipline. Your. Children. It. Might. Scar. Their. Psyches.

You. Should not. Use. The word. Christmas. Except. In. The privacy. Of your own home.

You. Poor people. Should. Send. Your kid. To. Public school. Even. If. It’s. Crappy. And. The other kids. Carry guns.

You. Should. Not. Own. A. Gun. Yourself. Your kid. Could. Shoot. Grandma.

If you. Have. An accident. You. Should. Sue. Someone.
Because. If. Something. Bad. Happens. It’s. Not. Your. Fault.
It’s probably Halliburton’s.

sssshhhhhhhhhh

Peggy Noonan is right about this I think. Let's all just take a deep breath and quiet down.

testosterone

Watching this weekend’s festivities in Ramallah as Arafat’s body was passed over a sea of young men’s hands, I couldn’t help contrasting this frenzied scene with Ronald Reagan’s funeral just a few short months ago.

Two fallen leaders, two sets of young men shooting their guns into the air. But what a difference a culture makes.

Every country on the planet has to figure out what to do with their young men and their hard-wired fascination with violence. The one thing no culture can afford to do is to pretend these young men and their fantasies don’t exist.

Here’s a poem by Sharon Olds that doesn't pretend.

RITE OF PASSAGE
As the guests arrive at my son's party
they gather in the living room—
short men, men in first grade
with smooth jaws and chins.
Hands in pockets, they stand around
jostling, jockeying for place, small fights
breaking out and calming. One says to another
How old are you? Six. I'm seven. So?
They eye each other, seeing themselves
tiny in the other's pupils. They clear their throats
a lot, a room of small bankers,
they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you
up, a seven says to a six,
the dark cake, round and heavy as a
turret, behind them on the table. My son,
freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks,
chest narrow as the balsa keel of a
model boat, long hands
cool and thin as the day they guided him
out of me, speaks up as a host
for the sake of the group.
We could easily kill a two-year-old,
he says in his clear voice. The other
men agree, they clear their throats
like Generals, they relax and get down to
playing war, celebrating my son's life.