Since it is Guy Fawkes Day, I’ll talk about Anne Askew.  Racked and then burned at the stake, she was at the other end of the theological extreme:  too Protestant.  Ms. Askew was also a martyr to bad timing.  Had she been a belligerent Protestant some five years earlier, Henry VIII might have been more tolerant of her dogma.  He definitely would have been more interested in an attractive young woman.  But by 1546, a death bed was all Henry could manage.  His councilors were plotting against each in anticipation of the Regency, and a loudmouth lady evangelist found herself caught between the factions. 

Henry’s Reformation had been a political divorce from Rome, not a theological one.  He simply presumed that he would make as good a Pope as a Medici would, which unfortunately was true.  So the Church of England was supposed to be the English Catholicism.  With that official policy, an enthusiasm for Luther was just as treasonable as a nostalgia for Rome.  But maintaining that middle ground–half of a Reformation–was impossible.  Even the Crown would periodically oscillate, straying one moment closer to Rome and other times toward Wittenburg.  It was difficult to keep pace and your head.  Thomas Cromwell couldn’t.  If a wily bastard like him couldn’t survive, what chance did the devout and impractical Anne Askew have.

Obviously, she was of a good family.  A preaching fishmonger would have been completely ignored or promptly quashed.  But the noble Miss Askew had connections; and connections can be incriminating.  That certainly was the hope of the Pro-Catholic faction that had Askew arrested.  Threatened with prison, torture or death, she was expected to volunteer names and agree to every suggestion from her interrogators.  “Have you ever seen Lord Somerset reading the Bible in English?”  “Has Katherine Parr ever denied her lust for John Knox?”  These were all treasonable offenses, and Askew’s corroborating confession would have made one faction very happy and  the other very dead.

Of course, Anne Askew really wasn’t your typical upper-class debutante.  Would she talk?  Well, she wasn’t shy about her dogma and the errors and damnation of any other doctrine.  But she wasn’t betraying anyone.  Imprisoned in the Tower of London, she was given a guided tour of the torture chambers.  The imminent threat had no effect on her.  Her captors must have realized that they had an insistent martyr on their hands.  She might scream but she wasn’t going to talk.  But even if torture was pointless, they had to maintain their professional standards.  It was better that Anne Askew lose her limbs than they lose their face.  Ms. Askew earned the distinction of being the only woman tortured at the Tower. 

Burned alive in 1546, at the age of 25, Anne Askew earned a certain artistic distinction.  The idea of a lovely, young woman being racked apparently seemed a suitable tableau in a number of wax museums’ Chamber of Horrors.

p.s.  Oh, yeah, him:  https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/11/05/once-upon-a-time-when-fundamentalist-protestants-were-the-liberals/

It is Thursday, two days after the election, and I am still receiving political flyers in the mail.  Of course, it is from the Republicans; they can afford the postage.  Today’s sales pitch features a beautiful woman and next to her the headline proclaiming that my Tory/Rotary Club Republican congressman really is pro-choice.  That certainly would be true if she were the Congressman’s mistress.  Even the most pro-life politician favors abortion when it might save his reputation.  But I am not questioning the sincerity of the congressman, just his ad agency.  I saw the same beautiful model on a brochure for a dental practice.  There, she was assuring me of “comfortable, trustworthy dentistry.”  Do you think she had a teeth-cleaning and an abortion simultaneously?  Anatomically it is possible, and I imagine that it will happen all the time under Obamacare. 

Now, for the election results.  In an exciting race between a fool and a fiend, the fool won.  Yes, our completely incompetent governor–a man who could be compared jello, a flounder or both–won reelection.  So you can just imagine his opponent.  No, don’t bother; I’ll give you the details.  The losing candidate advocated unrestrained possession of automatic weapons and the immediate extermination of unwanted pets.  See that hungry kitten in the alley; feel free to machine gun her!  Needless to say, the Rambo of puppies was the pro-life candidate.  Worse, even with all his self-canonizing ads, he looked like a used-car salesman–with a sneer rather than a smile.  So, here was my choice:  one candidate can’t do anything right, and the other will do everything wrong.     

I and a majority of Illinois voters chose a calamity over a catastrophe. 

Speaking of catastrophes, let’s not forget the historic significance of this day: https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/11/04/dulce-et-decorum-est/

(From the archives but worth repeating….)

The candidate has always been conscious of his image. In the days of the Roman Republic (509 B.C.-27 B.C.), long before there were press releases, the aspiring politician announced his campaign for public office by putting on his very best-whitest-toga and proclaiming his virtues in the Forum. There was a term for this spectacle, “candidatus” meaning clothed in white. Unfortunately, Roman politics were so tumultuous that “candidates” increasingly found it safer to wear armor than togas. Indeed, by 100 B.C. and for the remaining five centuries of Rome’s dominion, civil war was the most common method of election. By the Middle Ages, the idea of a “candidate” had lapsed into Latin obscurity.

Seventeenth century England revived the idea.  The growing power of Parliament attracted ambitious men. Many were tantalized by the prospects for social-climbing and the opportunities for graft. The Puritans wanted to impose their principles on everyone else. All of these aspiring megalomaniacs were vying for seats in Parliament. Whether this new occupation was a career or an affliction, it still required a name.

Fortunately, the Renaissance had revived literacy, and some English scholars remembered the term “candidatus.” Of course, the term was not meant literally. At the time, the only white clothing would have been shirts, which also served men as their pajamas and underwear. (The Roman practice of hygiene had yet to be revived.) The idea of publicly parading in only a shirt would have disqualified the Puritan politicians. Candidate now was a generic term.

The scholars had also revived the Roman word for white: candidus. People like John Milton always flaunted their erudition, and so they would speak of a candid cloud. Ironically, “candid” soon began its evolution, first mixing with other synonyms for white and then acquiring its distinct definition. To phrase it as etymological formula: Candid=white=shining=clear=open=frank. This evolution proved surprisingly quick. By the end of the 17th century, candid had assumed its current meaning. So, the similarity between the words “candid” and “candidate” is not an accident: it just is an oxymoron.

The voter was not always treated like an idiot.  On the contrary, in Ancient Greece the epithet was applied to those who didn’t vote. Idiot is derived from the Greek word, idiotes, meaning private citizen. In its broadest and snobbiest definition, it applied to any citizen not in the ruling class. Of course, in a democracy-like Athens– every citizen was in the ruling class. (However, not everyone was a citizen: the women and slaves learned that.) From the Athenian perspective, an idiot was that myopic, apathetic soul who did not participate in the city’s democracy.

Indeed, it is hard to imagine anyone who could witness the birth of Democracy and yet be oblivious to it. There was as much drama in Greek politics as in any amphitheater. Combining politics and theater, the Greeks had created the art of rhetoric. Pericles and Demosthenes treated the public like an audience, flattering, moving and dazzling the citizens. And the citizens were expected to argue back and debate the issues. Think of the topics that those Athenians decided: building a fleet, the construction of the Parthenon, war with Sparta. (The latter was not Athen’s most brilliant decision: imagine Meryl Streep starting a fist fight with Vin Diesel.) Yes, the Athenian citizens probably discussed zoning ordinances for chariots, too. Even classical Athens had its mundane matters.

Anyone so indifferent to this vital and dramatic process deserved contempt. The apathetic citizens were neglecting their rights and self-interest, abandoning their role in the democratic state. The word idiot became their stigma. Twenty-five centuries have broaden the word’s application but not improved its meaning. Of course, democracy and idiots are the not our only political legacy from Greece. We also have inherited a term for anyone whose politics differed from yours. The Greek word for fool is moron.

Hello.  Are you an emotional void or you haven’t master the basic tenets of courtesy?  Here is a company offering a substitute for your deficiencies. 

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What the Hell, I’ll write you a free speech.  (Don’t tell Karen; she’d want me to charge you.  The woman insists on a middle-class standard of living.  You’d think my good looks, wit and obvious sensuality would suffice.)  But chivalry takes precedence over money; I have to protect you from any writer that says high-tone. 

Here is the speech–with your choice of options.

First, let me thank (name the clergy).  Your invocation was (your choice): poignantly poignant/almost plausible/surprising considering the sordid rumors about you.

Now, I don’t know most of you, but it doesn’t matter:  I am not paying  for this (your choice):  celebration of love and hope/bourgeois self-parody/confirmation of the bride’s pregnancy.  What does matter is that I know my son and I am sure that you can sense (your choice) my unspeakable pride/my moderate interest/my complete bewilderment with his heterosexual taste.

Let me just assure our newlyweds that before you is (your choice) everything promised in a Hallmark commercial/the ever-growing appreciation of separate bathrooms/the probability that your second marriages won’t be any better.

Thank you/God help you/Waiter, another scotch.

First, I assure you:  I do not greet the trick-or-treating children with offers to tell them about the Byzantine Empire.  Well, at least, not anymore.  My neighbors were upset when their children destroyed all the family photos.  I had intended my discussion on iconoclasm to be anecdotal, not a manual.  Seven-year olds may have missed that distinction.  And we no longer are on speaking terms with the Kalmans.  Little Beaumont was correctly practicing the Byzantine method of disinheriting a relative, but he really shouldn’t have tried cutting off his sister’s nose.  (And perhaps I shouldn’t have quipped that she would have needed the nose job anyway.)

Yet, we are not the worst house in the neighborhood!  Who is our competion?

There is the lady who has been trying to give out the same bag of Windmill cookies since 1973.

Then, there is the 50 year-old yenta who comes to the door dressed like a parody of a teenager.  That is the way she normally looks.  But what is especially terrifying is her perfume:  I believe that it called “Gardenia in a Drum”.  The scent comes off on you.  After a visit to her house, the children have to be bathed in tomato juice.

Finally, we know someone who gives as treats her son’s business cards.  All the more horrifying is that the name of his business is misspelled.  So much for his Stanford education.  However, since he is in finance, there is no reason for his grammar to be better than his ethics.

Of course, you think that I am joking.  Cue the Bernard Herrmann music played by a Theremin!   Two of these anecdotes are appallingly true, and one is just slightly exaggerated; only my Byzantine tales are apocryphal (although the little Kalman girl will need the nose job).

p.s.  Let’s not forget the historic significance of this day:  https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/10/31/queer-eye-for-the-straight-cathedral-2/

Ekstra, że na koniec, wchodząc na tę stronkę, znalazłem to czego szukałem… Na nieszczęście na Google trafiam na tak dużą liczbę chłamu, że z trudem się w tym odnaleźć. Kapitalnie napisany i zadbany blog. Jeszcze tu na pewno wrócę. Dodałem do ulubionych. Pozdrowienia znad morza.

I have no idea what this means.  Of course, I’d like to think that I have a fan club in Cracow.  Perhaps I am more amusing in Polish than English.  On the other hand, this could also be a death threat or at least the more Anti-Semitic passages from “Taras Bulba.”  (Somehow, those were omitted from the Tony Curtis movie.)

I discovered your blog last week and started follow your posts religiously. I have not commented on any blog just yet but I was thinking I would love to. It’s really exciting to actually contribute to a article even if it’s only a blog. I really don’t know exactly what to write other than I really enjoyed reading through 2 of the articles. Nice articles indeed. I sure will keep visiting your blog weekly. I learned quite a bit from you. Thx!

Of course, this praise is gratifying but I was especially intrigued by the sender’s signature:  Free-Sex-Chat.  I wonder if she (Prosaic, bourgeois me  hopes that it is a she!) thinks that we are in the same business.  My discourses on the Treaty of Westphalia may be more arousing than I realized.  She presumably charges by the minute; perhaps I should charge by the footnote (or the parenthesis). 

If I am recommended reading at certain brothels, it must be the ones that cater to the most prestigious clientele.  My enthusiast–Ms. Free-Sex-Chat–is probably quoting me even as she is spanking Sen. David Vitter or Gov. Eliot Spitzer.

I am learning Hebrew or at least its alphabet.  Worshipping only one God, the Jews had that extra time to come up with 21 vowels.  Those underachieving Greeks and Romans thought five vowels would suffice.  Well, let me say “Eh!’ in 40 different ways.  Yes, my ancestral 21 dashes, slashes and dots are more than aspirates and glottal grunts:  they were the original emoticons!

Using the Morey Code you can express your mood, your health, what you had for dinner–and its phase of digestion.  Knowing the vowels gives a precise interpretation of the Ten Commandments. 

“I am the Lord Your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage.”  Vowels–disbelief.  Mr. Big Shot!  Probably messhuggah, but if He picks up the check, you play along.

“You shall have no other gods beside Me. You shall not make for yourself any graven image.”  Vowels–derision.  Fine, save us a fortune in marble.  Besides, who wants a God who looks Jewish.

“You shall not take the name of the Lord Your God in vain.”  Vowels–bewilderment.  As if you even had a name.  You’re no Apollo in more than one sense.

“Remember the Sabbath, to keep it holy.”  Vowels–sarcasm.  Fine, the sheep are going to herd themselves.  Maybe you don’t have a busy season but some of us do. 

“Honor your father and your mother”.  Vowels–irony.  Obviously, you never met my family!

“You shall not murder.”  Vowels–indignation.  Try telling this to the Gentiles.

“You shall not commit adultery.”  Vowels–amusement.  Of course, thinking about it is another matter.

“You shall not steal.”  Vowels–resignation.  Then try not to raise the Temple dues.

“You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.”  Vowels–martyrdom.  Lying to him is different.  He really thinks his daughter can play the piano.

You shall not covet your neighbor’s house, nor his wife, his man-servant, his maid-servant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor anything that is your neighbor’s. Vowels–suspicion.  Didn’t we already cover this?  Is ten Your lucky number or are You spreading rumors about me and Marcia Weinblatt?

Amen (ironically).

After my success on Jeopardy, my more sociopathic acquaintances (all of them futures traders) thought that I should become a gameshow buccaneer, plundering one television show after another.  There was one immediate obstacle to that strategy: it was illegal.  According to the standards of television broadcasters, a contestant can’t be on more than three different games within a five year period.   So the possibilities for loot were limited. 

Then, there was the fact that I didn’t want to be on most of those gameshows.  Am I really the “Price Is Right” type?  Eugene, how much would you pay to ransom Richard the Lion-Heart from an Austrian prison?   20,000 washer-dryer combinations?  Higher or lower? 

And even with a remote chance of running off with Vanna White, I had no interest in “Wheel of Fortune.” The phrases are never more challenging than “My Weekly Reader'”.  Wouldn’t it more fun if the puzzles were:  “Wh-l- r–d-ng “J-d- th- -bsc-r-“, – g-t – p-p-rc-t -nd -t t-rn-d s-pt-c.”   And the prizes are dreadful; you always coerced into taking a gift certificate from either IHOP or Zimbabwe. 

“Who Wants  To Be a Millionaire” did appeal to me–or at least my greed.  The first questions are incredibly easy:  Paris, France is the capital of what country?  Of course, when the questions are worth six figures, then you are asked the square root of Alan Greenspan’s social security number.  I could try deciphering some kabbalistic hint or just guess, so I was willing to be a contestant.  Unfortunately, I always seem to audition on days when the middle-aged male quota had already been reached.  I didn’t even have vicarious luck as a phone-a-friend.  Five contestants reserved my omniscient services but only one ever called me.

However, I have just discovered a game show that wildly appeals to the teenage nerd within me.  The show is called “Time Commanders”, and it pits humans against computer in a rematch of the great battles of history.  If I ever wanted to save the Persian army at Marathon, here was my chance.  Did I think that I could defeat Hannibal at Cannae, or protect England from William the Conqueror?  “Time Commanders” was daring me!

If you are unfamiliar with the show, there are two good reasons.  One is that it is a British series–and apparently lacks the trisexual time travelers to get on BBC  America.  However, you can see past games on You-Tube.  The goal is to undo history.  A team of four players–divided into generals and lieutenants–take on the losing side and, competing against the computer, see if they can do better than the actual commanders.

For example, four Anglican vicars undertook the Roman invasion of Germania in A.D. 9.  Would they do better than Varus, the idiot grandnephew-in-law of Augustus.  Would their three legions also be wiped out, and the vicars’ severed heads sent to the Archbishop of Canterbury?  (Well, the reenactment wouldn’t be quite that vivid.)  Believe it or not, the vicars actually won the Battle of Teutoburg Forest.  Of course, they were a little less surprised than Varus was.

The Romans also triumphed over Hannibal at Cannae; four policemen from Bedfordshire did better than two Roman consuls.  In other matches, the combined might of Sparta and four female Rugby players still were defeated by Thebes at the battle of Leuctra.  Irish musicians thwarted the Roman invasion of Armenia.  A team of Welsh mental health workers triumphed over the Normans at Hastings, leaving us  spraching Anglische and reducing Mrs. Liz  Mountbatten to a landlady in Rouen.  Time Commanders is a great game of what if. 

Oh I should mention the second reason that you hadn’t heard of it.  The show lasted only two seasons and has been off the air since 2005.  So I am only five years late for the audition.

Well, I guess there’s still Millionaire.  In just a few more years, I’ll be a more appealing demographic than middle-aged.

Publisher to fix Confederate error, print new book

RICHMOND, Va. — The publisher of a Virginia textbook is printing revised editions to correct a passage that wrongly claims thousands of black troops fought for the Confederacy.

Number of diabetic Americans could triple by 2050

ATLANTA — As many as 1 in 3 U.S. adults could have diabetes by 2050, federal officials announced Friday in a dramatic new projection that represents a threefold increase.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention estimate that 1 in 10 have diabetes now, but the number could grow to 1 in 5 or even 1 in 3 by mid-century if current trends continue.

“This is alarming,” said Ann Albright, director of the CDC’s Division of Diabetes Translation.

In response to this growing crisis, Mars, Inc.  has announced its new line of insulin products, including dark chocolate and jamoca fudge.

Saddam’s ex-foreign minister faces execution by hanging

I just wish to remind the Iraqi judicial system that speechwriters are not worth killing.  Even a grump like Oliver Cromwell never bothered to execute Edward Hyde, the speechwriter for Charles I.  Of course, with that job on his resume, Hyde might have preferred execution.

This is not to suggest that I ever wrote speeches for Saddam Hussein.  Well, not a major one.  It was just his greeting to the graduating seniors of Babylon High.

And speaking of the precarious lives of speechwriters, today is the anniversary of the Battle of Agincourt:  https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/10/26/historical-and-rhetorical-revisions/

Most Inspiring Spam of the Day

I am a Elliott wave analyst from Germany and everybody in my company is very nervous! There will be quite a big movement very soon! It is really essential to have a good risk managment now!

Shouldn’t you be telling France and Poland instead of me?

Election Musings

From political ads, I see that Republicans are trying to make an issue of Nancy Pelosi.  What exactly is so frightening about her?  She wears less makeup than John Boehner.

Politically Incorrect

Having learned of their right-wing stance during the Dreyfus Affair, I will no longer answer any Jeopardy questions about Paul Cezanne, Pierre-Auguste Renoir and Edgar Degas.  (However, I am still on speaking terms with Claude Monet.)  And yes, I am willing to be the art critic for National Public Radio.

The Wrong Exorcism

This is the feast day of St. Albercius Marcellus, the second century bishop whose missionary efforts in Mesopotamia were so obviously successful. At least, no one killed him.

According to Christian folklore, Albercius Marcellus also was said to have exorcised Lucilla, daughter of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius. That would make Albercius the patron saint of malpractice because Lucilla was the Emperor’s sane child. The good bishop apparently did not notice any of the quirks in Commodus; Hollywood has proved a little more observant.

Commodus preferred to be introduced as Hercules son of Jupiter. That certainly would have tested his father’s stoicism, but perhaps Marcus Aurelius thought that the boy would grow out of that phase. Unfortunately, inheriting the Roman Empire only further spoiled Commodus. He insisted that Rome be renamed Commodiana. And being the incarnation of Hercules, he trained to be a gladiator–although he limited his risk to killing animals. The wars in Britain and along the Danube were left to others; Commodus was busy slaughtering ostriches at the Colosseum. He was an accomplished archer, which allowed him a reasonably cautious way to kill lions.

The public was entertained, except for the patrician class being coerced into paying for the murdered menageries. His sister Lucilla was not exactly devoted to him either. In 182, just two years after his ascending the throne, she plotted his assassination. The nephew of her lover was supposed to stab the Emperor. Unfortunately, the aspiring assassin was also a cousin and he must have shared the family trait for bombastic theatrics because he proclaim the assassination before he had accomplished it. The Praetorians had more than enough time to disarm the orating man. Of course, he was soon executed, and so was the Emperor’s nasty big sister and her lover. However, Lucilla’s husband was spared; he really was innocent of the plot. (Lucilla kept him in the dark about everything.)

In fairness to Commodus, he did not kill people as indiscriminately as he did animals. He was a megalomanical buffoon but not a monster. The young Emperor really just wanted to party rather than rule; he let his ministers run the empire and kill each other. (Just think of Commodus as a George Bush who had stayed drunk.) But after 12 years of a reign that was more mercurial than herculean, it was obvious that Commodus would never grow up; so his ministers decided that he shouldn’t grow old.

Even his mistress was involved in the plot. She tried poisoning him but apparently was not that good a cook. Someone finally thought of an appropriate sendoff; since Commodus was a jock, a professional athlete was hired to snap the Emperor’s neck. Commodus finally had a match that wasn’t fixed.

The ever-adolescent emperor (he was a callow 31) was succeeded by a mature and eminent senator who lasted less than a year, murdered by the imperial guard which then auctioned the empire off to the highest bidder. That was followed by civil war, tyrants, maniacs, more civil wars and an inexorable decline of the Empire itself.

Edward Gibbons began “The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire” with the reign of Commodus. If only St. Albercius had exorcised the right child.