You keep using this word. I do not think it means what you think it means.

The most exceptional error in word choice in a student essay this semester is, without question:

"Groups of people like to consummate in the theater lobby before or after the movie."

The Few. The Proud. The Postmodern.

Yesterday evening I was driving home when I saw police lights at the intersection up ahead. I figured there had been an accident on the main road, so I turned down a side-street, only to realize that in fact, Lubbock had been temporarily shut down for the Christmas Parade. I decided to park in front of a local business to watch the illuminated floats, which included an array of pickup trucks and muscle cars coated with Christmas lights.

After a while, the profile of the parade participants started to shift from local businesses and church groups to military vehicles and Marines. Their uniforms, in this context, reminded me of toy soldiers and nutcrackers. This photograph, which I stole from the internet, is a good illustration of what was going on in my brain:

The vehicles had banners on the sides that read "Toys for Tots", and the Marines were cheerfully collecting presents from people in the crowd. I thought, "Oh, that's nice." But then, I saw something that made me wonder if someone had spiked the eggnog at the Marines' Public Relations Department office party. As is customary in Christmas Parades, the final float featured a guy dressed as Santa Claus, who sat in a big chair and waved to the crowds. This was all very expected, as were the assortment of elves, toys and illuminated candy canes that surrounded him. As the float rolled past, however, I started to make out other figures on the flatbed, positioned across from Santa. As it was dark, it took me a moment to identify them as cardboard cutouts of this photograph:

So, Santa Claus is on Iwo Jima? The Marines have just taken the North Pole? Do acts of war qualify as naughty or nice? So many questions.

The Good Ferret

Today we had the annual Blessing of the Animals service at my church. The furrier members of the congregation each received a sprinkling with holy water and a laying on of hands. Mollie was agreeable about the ritualized petting, but she doesn't like to get wet, so when the holy water was deployed she shot me a glance that asked "is this really necessary?"

We read one of St. Basil's prayers for animals, which includes a confession of guilt:

"We remember with shame that in the past we have exercised the high dominion of man with ruthless cruelty so that the voice of the earth, which should have gone up to Thee in song has been a groan of travail."

The instant the congregation said "groan of travail", one of the assembled schnauzers offered an appropriate sound effect, which got laughs, but also made it all a bit spooky.

As the priest blessed each animal, he said "May God make you a good dog [cat], and may you live a long, happy, and healthy life." There wasn't much variety in species at the event, in part because I failed to convince my friend Linda to bring one of her chickens, but I did have the privilege of witnessing the blessing of a ferret. "May God make you a good ferret..." I wonder, what constitutes a good ferret?

Party Boots

Last weekend I attended a friend's birthday party, where someone complimented me on my boots. I pulled up the leg of my jeans to reveal the green uppers, at which point the birthday girl's boyfriend left the room to put on his similarly-colored kickers. This was a fine Texas moment.

Morris Dancing?!

Man, I wish I had time for this: the university is starting a Morris Dancing troupe to perform with their Vernacular Music ensemble. For those of you not familiar with Morris Dancing, it's a pagan dance tradition from the UK (before it was the UK) - it's the sort of thing that happens at festivals celebrating the Green Man. There is lots of jumping about and hitting of sticks, and it's no coincidence that Monty Python emerged from the same culture. Again, West Texas is ever surprising.

Water and Power

My trip to Israel this summer was the first time I've really experienced the desert. I live in a desert-adjacent area, but so far I've kept my hiking to a minimum. Israel's desert, as you may know from experience or from Biblical narratives, is quite serious - one feels like one is standing in the blast of a hot hair dryer, even at 4am (more on that in a moment). I couldn't help notice that at every tourist destination, there was much talk about water.

I stayed at a hotel in East Jerusalem, partly because it was close to the Episcopal Cathedral. I dropped in for a service, then walked around to look at the decor. I couldn't help but notice the full-immersion baptismal font.

This is pretty intense for Episcopalians, who wouldn't normally want to get their linen trousers wet, but a trip to the archaeological site by the Western Wall soon clarified things.

This is an old-school mikvah, a purification bath where people could undergo ritual cleansing before approaching the temple. I particularly like this one, with the divider down the middle to separate the clean from the unclean. This is part of the elaborate hydraulic infrastructure surrounding Herod the Great's Second Temple. During my day at the Western Wall (of said Temple), I took the much-recommended tunnel tour, which allows one to walk the full length of the Wall underground. The tour guide made much of Herod's architectural genius, continually noting the effective water system in and around the Temple. At the end of the wall, the guide did offer a caveat, reminding us that while Herod was a great builder, he was also a deranged and paranoid murderer (see Innocents, Slaughter of the) whose victims included his own wife and children.

I got to enjoy more of Herod's dubious greatness in Masada, a city built on top of a mountain by the Dead Sea, constructed to be virtually self-sufficient so as to survive a siege. The "thing to do" is to climb Masada at sunrise, partly because it's unbearably hot at any other time of day, and partly because it commemorates Masada's last stand. Its last inhabitants were able to resist the Roman invaders, as the city was well fortified and the only access route is a narrow winding path. That is, until the Romans, who wouldn't take no for an answer, decided to build a ramp up the side of the mountain. The Romans finished their ramp and breached the walls at dawn, only to find the inhabitants of Masada had committed mass suicide. It's all a bit grim. I arrived at 4am, put on my hiking boots, and headed for the top with a group of young soldiers on a field trip. Just as I set out, my taxi driver ran after me with another bottle of water, just in case. It was a good thing too, as the climb was long and broiling, even without the sun.

Here I am in Herod's summer palace, which is a dramatic cliff-trail walk from the elaborate baths (complete with caldarium, tepidarium, and frigidarium) and multiple cisterns that would keep the city supplied with water even through seemingly constant drought, not to mention the pools for Dead Sea water, with its healing properties.

These fierce birds frequent the area (one managed to steal some of my breakfast later that morning - I turned my back and was suddenly missing a knish), and this one was helpfully pointing out highlights on the interpretive model of the site. The palace is in the lower left corner, and the bird is standing near the swimming pool, a true luxury in the desert. This was an impressive, if somewhat hyperbolic use of water, and I imagined that it would make life in Masada quite bearable.

After a couple of hours I decided to start my descent, but just before leaving I walked past a small tour group, where the guide was talking about Herod's personality problems. He described him as utterly paranoid, convinced that everyone, from neighbouring tribes to his own family, were out to kill him. The guide then asked his group "Do you know Herod's preferred method of murder?" I slowed down, eager to hear the lurid answer: "Drowning."

Planning

I am in the process of applying for a Green Card, and have been enjoying the strangeness of the process. Yesterday I filled out a questionnaire where I was asked if I've ever been a Communist and/or a Nazi. More specifically, if I had been a Nazi back in the day, they wanted to know if I ever actually hurt anybody. Were you a nice Nazi?

They also want to know if I plan to engage in polygamy while in the US. My question is, does anyone ever really plan on polygamy? From my extensive viewing of HBO's hit series Big Love, about the lives and loves of fringe Mormons, it seems like polygamy is something that just happens - you take a babysitting job and "pow!", you find yourself surrounded by sister wives. Anyway, I don't have polygamy plans myself, so I was able to tick the "No" box on that one, but life is full of surprises.

Other questions addressed my involvement in prostitution, espionage, arms dealing, terrorism, forging documents, "helping with" genocide, working in concentration camps, arms dealing, drug dealing, murder, and coup-planning. As I said "No" to all of the above, I started to think of my life as actually pretty dull. Maybe I should step things up with some unplanned polygamy.