And Finally

One of my favorite scenes in Kill Bill, Quentin Tarantino’s black comedy martial arts film, is the meeting of Beatrix “the Bride” Kiddo, played by Uma Thurman, with sword-maker Hattori Hanzo at his scruffy sushi bar in Okinawa. Hanzo: What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? Kiddo: I need Japanese steel. Hanzo: Why do you need Japanese steel? Kiddo: I have vermin to kill. Hanzo: You must have big rats, to need Hattori Hanzo’s steel. Tarantino filched his sword-maker’s name from history. Hattori Hanzo was a real ninja (or rather, the historically correct word shinobi). Born in 1542, he spent his life in the service of the shogun Tokugawa Ieyasu and compiled the manual Shinobi Hiden (Legends of Ninja Secrets).

My husband was so excited about learning the term perigee-syzygy that he kept saying it over and over, until the words blended into his regular breathing and he dozed off in his chair. The compound word describes what the vulgar press calls a supermoon. A syzygy happens when the Moon, Earth and sun line up, creating a full moon (or a new moon, which we can’t see because only the far side gets lit up). The perigee is when the moon comes closest to Earth (its farthest point is called the apogee). The distance changes because the moon’s orbit around Earth is oval-shaped.

I must have seen it in a movie, one of the old black and white ones: jovial carolers coming into the manor, brushing the snow off their shoulders and stamping their feet. Or rosy-cheeked sledders whacking their boots against the doorstep as the fluffy stuff obligingly disperses. That’s not the way it works in north Georgia, where I remember about four or five childhood snows. Soggy, 35-degree snows. Snows that bring down pine trees onto every powerline in ten counties. Snows that nevertheless thrill the hearts of schoolchildren, who almost instantly find that they’re not equipped for their Alpine fantasies. That was not mitten country, or sweater country, or even often warm hat country.

Christmas travel dates back to... well, do a hundred donkey-miles from Nazareth to Bethlehem count? I’m sure irritating New Atheists fixated on when, exactly, the Judaean lambing season is would argue that it doesn’t. My festive journey has consisted of a return flight over the ocean for the last nine years — with the exception of 2020; I wonder why. A recent review of my calendar reveals that I’ve made over fifty transatlantic crossings in that time. My yuletide offering to our subscribers is the knowledge I have picked up along the way. If your schedule permits, flights seven to ten days before and after Christmas Day always work out significantly cheaper than those closer to the big day.

When hearing “Taiwan,” people who have some awareness of the world will think of its focal role in US-China relations or computer chips. And if they don’t have much awareness they’ll confuse it with Thailand — yes, this has happened to me multiple times. But most simply do not know much about the island that was once known as “Ilha Formosa” —beautiful island — by Portuguese settlers in the sixteenth century. The colonizers knew what they were talking about. The media tells us about military activity in the South China Sea, fostering fear in most. Before I left for study abroad in Taipei, most people’s first reaction when I told them where I was going was, “Aren’t you concerned about China?” or “Isn’t this a risky time to go?

I love the first day of school. Summer break was the perfect amount of time to make me long for the tedium of learning again. Mom would purchase new binders; I would begin to dream about that perfect first-day-of-school outfit; friends would discuss frightening future assignments and school supplies would be gathered. I would wake up that morning and have everything ready for me — only to arrive sleepily at the kitchen table in my pajamas, with my six siblings and our not-so-beloved Saxon Math books. My high-school experience as a homeschooler included a hodge-podge of extracurricular activities... orchestra, soccer, debate, church responsibilities and a bunch of random classes in things like graphic design and Polynesian dance.

James Madison is consistently forgotten. Admittedly, many of the Founding Fathers are forgotten. The average American could probably name two of the forty or so founders in Howard Chandler Christy’s Capitol painting “Scene at the Signing of the Constitution of the United States.” But while Washington and Jefferson get imposing monuments in DC and Hamilton gets a musical, the father of our beloved Constitution hardly has a memorial. Asking Google why will pull up an article from the Harvard Law Bulletin quoting Professor Noah Feldman. “Unlike George Washington or Thomas Jefferson, no monument was built to honor Madison in the nation’s capital. You have to see the Constitution as his monument,” said Feldman. “His influence is hidden in plain sight.

"Rollicking time,” sang my husband to the tune of “Mull of Kintyre.” He had been amused to hear of this misapprehension of the lyrics and smugly enjoyed it not being his mistake for a change. That kind of mull is a Gaelic word meaning “bare headland.” I think it is related to the Welsh word for a bare hill, moel, which Gerard Manley Hopkins used, with initial mutation, as voel in “The Wreck of the Deutschland.” That is all very well, but I have been annoyed recently by people saying that they want to mull things. I don’t mean wine, but possibilities. I would say “mull things over.” Why can’t everyone else? But the history of mull is fearfully complicated and obscure for such a little word.

February is the worst month and everybody knows it. The awkward number of days, the wretched weather. Even the way it’s spelled is irritating. Yet just when you think your raging Seasonal Affective Disorder will get the best of you, February, of all months, offers a break in the bleakness that’s been indomitable since New Year’s. It’s absurd, hokey and best of all, like the Pennsylvania Dutch who invented it, immune to politics. Which is why Groundhog Day should be a national holiday instead of just a regional one. Groundhog Day seemed like a big deal when I was a kid.

As we enter 2024 with trepidation, let us take comfort in the fact that this year’s “Colors of the Year” are actual colors. I’m an interior-design enthusiast who takes color very seriously. Over the course of seven years, I agonized over narrowing down dozens of saved paint samples to just five shades with which to paint the walls of a hypothetical cabin. Monet and I are simpatico — color is our “day-long obsession, joy and torment.” The online algorithms are well aware of my interest in interior decorating ideas, which may explain my impression that paint manufacturers put out a new “Color of the Year” every couple of months.

You think the Christmas season starts when the Christmas decorations entirely take over Hobby Lobby at the first of November. Or the night of Thanksgiving when, full of turkey, you make your first gift purchase on Amazon. Or for us Christians, the first Sunday in December when kids bug us for that piece of chocolate and we begin reading about the birth of Christ. But we all know Christmas started earlier, perhaps back in October, when your wife began to turn her heart toward the Hallmark channel. Here is some advice from a happily married man of more than two decades: you won’t defeat Hallmark this year. You can only hope to contain it.

Have you heard “mid?” The very-online no longer call something “bad” or “dumb” or “crap” or “a shit-festooned barnacle attached to the culture.” They call it “mid.” As in “middling.” In one of the nontroversies that regularly grip Twitter, TMZ reported that someone had said “Jennifer Connelly (in the Nineties) was way more attractive than Zendaya is today — and she was considered pretty mid on the hotness scale.” Legions rose to defend the obviously defensible Nineties hotness of Ms. Connelly: A stupid person is no longer a nitwit, but a “midwit”; the undiscerning eye says Jennifer Connelly’s looks are “mid.” Unlike traditional English slang, which comes from letters to Winston Churchill (“OMG!

Lately, Lord Queso von Taco has been really into Barn Hunt. Lord Queso von Taco is a Boston Terrier who lives in the suburbs of Houston, Texas, with two other Boston Terriers and their owner, a graphic designer named Ashley Peterson. I know about Queso’s existence because I own his mother, Briar, a retired and celebrated show dog in her own right. So we follow Queso’s athletic exploits quite closely. He’s been a champion “dock diver” for a few years now, which brought him to a talent scout’s attention, which led to several TV commercials, including, most prominently, a recent Christmas advert for Takis. Nothing will keep LQ off the docks. But he loves Barn Hunt, too.

You are stranded in the middle of an unforgiving desert, and must take refuge from a sandstorm before your Hit Points deplete any further. You find a rock outcropping — after a successful Perception check, a false wall reveals a sprawling cavern. Inside is a long-lost tomb. There are markings: could this be the dreaded Dark Speech of that necromancy cult the innkeeper kept warning you about? You have no idea, sadly. You spent your downtime trying to seduce the elven serving wench instead of reading the innkeeper’s copy of Desert Cults: Their Languages. Trying and failing, mind you — as a dwarven paladin, your Charisma score just wasn’t up to the job. No idea what I’m going on about? Count yourself among an ever-shrinking minority.

I’ve never been one for doing what I’m told. My first cigarette came soon after a family member voiced his disgust at “cancer sticks.” I have a DIY tattoo on my finger, which came after giving one to my friend with the same needle. In high school, the uniform code included “natural hair,” so obviously I dyed mine blue. My defense — “it’s the color of the sky!” — only led to harsher punishment. So, naturally, after being told not to get a nose job, that’s exactly what I did. I’ve never understood why those who have had nose jobs are so shy about it. They’re noticeable, painful, life-changing and fairly expensive.

There exists a magical place where not only are you free to identify as who or whatever you wish, but you’re also encouraged to adopt a persona that defies reality. You aren’t restricted to the narrow LGBQTIA+ choices our unimaginative liberal elites have imposed, either. Nay, in this ultra-diverse, inclusive land, you’re expected to dream beyond this century — this planet even — and transition uninhibited into whatever strikes your fantasy. No, not the “metaverse”; I’m referring to the time-honored American tradition of the Renaissance Faire, where history buffs, fantasy nerds, down-and-out actors, and normal suburban families converge to create a giant freakshow that is innocent fun at its best.

How many of you know a baby called Margot? I’ve encountered three in the last couple of months. They all looked more or less the same too. Presumably it’s twenty years too late to blame The Royal Tenenbaums — so perhaps Ms. Robbie is responsible? There’s a lot I love about America, and in many respects this country has improved on the systems and traditions of my own — but one adjustment I cannot get behind is the frequency with which you guys deploy last names as first names. Many want to show appreciation for their favorite president, hence the number of kids called Reagan and Jefferson — and the lack of ones called Biden and Trump. But there’s something bleakly corporate about the result.

There is a property on the outskirts of my little Central Pennsylvania town that I’ve always thought was a junkyard. At last month’s township supervisors’ meeting, I learned the couple of acres bestrewn with broken-down old vehicles, rusting tractor trailers, an off-kilter mobile home, some dilapidated campers, scattered mechanical accessories, a dumpster and a trampoline is actually someone’s home. “It used to be a beautiful neighborhood ’til those rat-nest people started living up there,” a neighbor told the board. “This is bullshit!” Meanwhile, in a neighboring township, a newly elected board of supervisors has made it their mission to crack down on junk.