Over the transom

Being on a wide selection of magazine mailing lists does have its advantages. Not only do I get to read the hysterical whip-up-the-supporters propaganda of both sides of every conceivable political issue, I sometimes get pleading missives from no less than the President himself. (See? There's his signature, right there at the bottom!)

With both sides' election machinery cranking up to its full whirling fury, I have in the past two weeks received a presidential photograph-suitable-for-framing and a certificate officially designating me a Leading Republican of [This Fair City] (and pleading for money), a survey from the Democratic Party earnestly trying to determine what I think so that their candidates can script their speeches accordingly (and pleading for money), and hysterical pleas for money from the Heritage Foundation, the ACLU, and Planned Parenthood, each of which implores me to ACT NOW!!! because their dastardly opponents control the press and the government and only with my generous help can they save civilization as we know it!

Eh.

I still have the one from the ACLU. I might write back to them. The presidential photo (a differently-cropped version of the one they sent me before - don't they think I have any visual memory?) rests in a Wal-Mart frame in a place of honor on top of the toilet tank. I remind the rare, puzzled visitors to my spartan barracks to remember what I'm doing when I face that photograph.

The issue of the Claremont Review of Books which arrived unsolicited in my mailbox was a more welcome gift. Although the magazine is politically conservative in outlook, it does contain a book review by William F. Buckley in which the dean of modern American conservatism takes Ann Coulter to task -- albeit quite urbanely -- for the "mischief" and exaggerations in her book Treason : Liberals from the Cold War to the War on Terrorism. Buckley, an intelligent man, clearly recognizes that, although he agrees with some of Coulter's impassioned defense of Red-hunter Joseph McCarthy, she has gone off the rhetorical deep end with her hysterical assertions that anyone and everyone who fails to unquestioningly agree with her is a "traitor". The title of his review? "Tailgunner Ann" -- a nickname with a great deal of resonance for anyone familiar with the tale of McCarthy. For those who miss the historical allusion, the illustration -- a drawing of a glaring, poofy-haired Coulter ominously swinging a lynch noose -- makes the point.

Disappointingly, though, Buckley backs off the criticism in his conclusion, allowing how it's "fun" to indulge in "mischief" against the "other guy". Too bad; he was on the verge of regaining my respect.

Also particularly interesting, in light of my own observations on a college campus and a blogfriend's recent cryptic allusions to some unspecified vile behavior on the part of a purportedly human male, was the cover story, Wimps and Barbarians : the sons of Murphy Brown, a lengthy essay by Terence O. Moore, a private school principal and former Marine lieutenant and history professor.

Moore's thesis is that, in the absence of strong education in the classical male virtues, the current generation of young men tend to develop toward one or the other of two models, the Wimps and Barbarians of his title. Those who have spirit, lacking a firmly defined proper channel for that spirit, develop into "barbarians":

Today's barbarians are not hard to find. Like the barbarians of old, the new ones wander about in great packs. You can recognize them by their dress, their speech, their amusements, their manners, and their treatment of women. You will know them right away by their distinctive headgear. They wear baseball caps everywhere they go and in every situation: in class, at the table, indoors, outdoors, while taking a test, while watching a movie, while on a date. They wear these caps frontward, backward, and sideways. They will wear them in church and with suits, if ever a barbarian puts on a suit. Part security blanket, part good-luck charm, these distinctive head coverings unite each barbarian with the rest of the vast barbaric horde.

Recognizing other barbarians by their ball caps, one barbarian can enter into a verbal exchange with another anywhere: in a men's room, at an airport, in a movie theater. This exchange, which never quite reaches the level of conversation, might begin with, "Hey, what up?" A traditional response: "Dude!" The enlightening colloquy can go on for hours at increasingly high volumes. "You know, you know!" "What I'm sayin'!" "No way, man!" "What the f---!" "You da man!" "Cool!" "Phat!" "Awesome!" And so on. Barbarians do not use words to express thoughts, convey information, paint pictures in the imagination, or come to a rational understanding. Such speech as they employ serves mainly to elicit in others audible reactions to a few sensual events: football, sex, hard rock, the latest barbarian movie, sex, football. In the barbarian universe, Buckleyesque vocabularies are not required.

Those who lack spirit or courage become wimps instead:

If barbarians suffer from a misdirected manliness, wimps suffer from a want of manly spirit altogether....

Like the barbarian, the wimp is easily recognized by his personality and preoccupations. His main passion is music. Music does not serve him as it does the Platonic guardian, to balance his soul. Nor is he usually a performer or student of music. He has no affinity for classical symphony or opera. Rather, he finds that certain types of music evoke a mood of listless self-infatuation. He may at times listen to music with friends. And he will probably try to express his interest in a girl by quoting a song lyric. Nonetheless, his absorption with music is essentially a private refuge from the challenges of the world.

In addition to music, the wimp may take an interest in the opposite sex. But his approach to dating and relationships is different from the barbarian. The barbarian has simple appetites. His ideal is the Playboy playmate or the winner of a hot legs contest at Daytona Beach, and his ultimate aim in any relationship or encounter, whatever he may say, is sex. As an athlete, the barbarian is a hero of sorts. He walks with an unmistakable air of confidence. The wimp, on the other hand, has more complex reasons for wanting women. Although sex is certainly one of his desires, more than sex he needs affirmation. He desperately needs a girlfriend to boost his self-confidence. Having someone else notice him will somehow show the world that he is not a total loser. The wimp also needs someone to hear his laments, to commiserate with him when he is feeling down, to discover his secret self. Since he has few qualities or achievements to recommend him, he seeks to appear "interesting" or mysterious. Initially, the wimp might seem amusing to an unsuspecting young lady and very different from the insensitive jocks and rowdies she has known. Ultimately, however, the wimp seeks to draw her into his web of melancholy and self-pity. The story always ends unhappily since romance cannot be based upon pity or the thin facade of personality. He might mope and whine his way into a woman's bed but will find excuses to avoid "commitment." The wimp will begin the relationship by saying, "You're the only one who understands me" and end it by saying, "You don't understand me at all." The truth is that there is not much to understand.

Some choice, eh, ladies?