Author: J. Thorp

Book Break: Atlas Yawned

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Several months back, when I took a break from blogging, I spent many long weeks listening to an audiobook reading of Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. From the opening chapter, I wanted to like it — it unfolds like a story that needs telling — but my guard was up: from what little I knew of the book and of Rand, I was certain to find parts of the book’s worldview objectionable.

In hindsight, I still believe there is a great story to be told in Atlas, buried among the monotonous monologues, ham-fisted philosophizing, immense egos, and sexual dysfunction and self-loathing. It is prescient in some ways, and in general, I agree with the dangers of rewarding inability and incompetence, and saw much I recognized in the progressive agenda and the corporate culture of political power, spin, and blame. On the other hand, the insistence upon ability as the sole criterion of the worth of a person, the overly simplistic and roundly negative presentation of religion, and the conflation of lust with love are fundamentally problematic for orthodox Catholics (and should be, I would argue, for Christians in general).
But as a reader and aspiring writer, the problems run deeper (or rather, shallower) than these. The books goes on and on, long after the point is made and the mystery solved. Dagny Taggart and Hank Rearden are among the brightest minds of their era, and neither can put these pieces together? The mysterious John Galt; Francisco’s odd, destructive behavior; the disappearance of the captains of industry — and no one gets it except the reader. There is an odd parallel here to The Blair Witch Project, which opened with the knowledge that the protagonists were never seen again, so that the viewer was left with little in which to be interested, except to see how they bought it. In this case, however, we know they haven’t bought it — and we’re waiting to see how long it takes for the heroes to figure it out.

Answer: A long dang time.

Really, the only thing I was a bit uncertain about right up to the reveal was who the nameless rail-worker in the Taggart terminal was, and who he was spying for. Strangely, his primary source, the ever-loyal and reasonably intelligent Eddie Willers, shared no such wonder.
The book could be half as long and thrice as engaging, if only the characters talked less and connected the dots more. I would recommend it only to help people understand the frequent political and cultural references we still hear today. I’m interested in seeing the film version, as even spread across three movies, I have trouble believing the filmmakers could have been so long-winded onscreen. This may be the rare instance in which the movie surpasses the book.

More Shave For Less

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The old standby: Gillette Sensor Excel and Edge Shaving Gel

The Art of Manliness (AoM) website continues to be a favorite destination for my sons and me, for everything from well-researched writing on the history of manly honor to how-to articles on wilderness survival. It is not without flaws, of course: there is an undercurrent of hipster consumerism that manifests itself, for example, in the site’s frequent Huckberry giveaways. Huckberry is a free subscription site that aggregates interesting content and cool manly gadgets, products, and clothing, and every week or two, AoM sponsors a giveaway to drive traffic to Huckberry’s store. The merchandise is often quite nice, but how can a site touting manly self-sufficiency advocate for purchasing a $40 hardwood six-pack carrier (or a $120 “wallet” made out of old baseball glove leather) when any man worth his salt could make the same for the cost of a few bucks and a little elbow grease?

Nevertheless, if you pay attention at AoM, you might learn something that actually saves you money. For the past several months leading up to this summer, I’ve been wearing a full beard as opposed to my more typical goatee. When I finally decided to lighten the load on my face, I couldn’t find any spare cartridges for my razor — an old double-bladed Gillette Sensor Excel I’ve had for years now. I scraped by (see what I did there?) with the old cartridge until I got to Walmart to pick up some more. $20+ for ten cartridges.
My head rebelled. Must be discontinuing these, I thought. I should get the razor Brendan has; then we’ll use the same blades.
Brendan’s razor is a triple-bladed Schick Hydro 3 he got at Christmas time. It’s nowhere to be seen, though there are a few cartridge left on the rack — also $2+ a piece. I could get a newer model Gillette or Schick cartridge razor for $10-$20, and pay through the nose for cartridges you use three times and pitch, or go cheap and completely disposable. 
Secondhand Gillette safety razor
and badger brush, $12 total
Then I noticed a tiny box that read “Wilkinson Sword double-edged razor blades” — a 10 pack for a couple bucks — and I remembered something: a few evenings back, Brendan had been watching a video on the Art of Manliness site: How to Shave Like Your Grandpa. I turned my back on the Walmart rack and went home.
The video was helpful, as was the original article and several others on the site, and I learned a ton of useful (and useless) information. For example: who knew that most shaving brushes are made with either boar or badger hair, both of which provide an appropriate level of stiffness while retaining a certain amount of water needed to mix shaving lather? Badger is considered the premium hair for shaving brushes, but boar is more readily available — leading to a discussion about a side business to Brendan’s taxidermy work: Would hunters miss a few brushes’ worth of hair from their boars? Would a naked badger mount ever catch on?
Of course, the hipster element persists here too: an old-school wet shave is considered the pinnacle of…something…so you can spend hundreds of dollars on “silvertip” badger brushes, modern safety razors (or sought-after vintage models), organic and vegan shaving soaps and splashes, you name it.
Yeah, I didn’t do that. As I approach my 40th year, I like cheap and secondhand, and I like things that last. I found an secondhand Gillette safety razor at an antique shop in Rogers for $5, which I opened and scrubbed with hot soapy water and a toothbrush, then found a pure badger shaving brush with a chipped handle and its bristles intact at an antique store in Buffalo for $7 (“That’s luxury right there,” says Bren) — I washed that thoroughly several times with antibacterial soap. Blades were a $1 for ten; shaving soap was $1, I think, and after four shaves, I can’t tell I’ve used it. I’ve picked up a couple of other things, just to try: a tube of cream for a few dollars, a shaving “scuttle” for $2 at a secondhand store in Monticello, drugstore aftershave, that sort of thing. I’ve used one blade thus far for four shaves, and shaving twice a week on average, I shouldn’t need to purchase anything else (blades, cream, or soap) until Christmas, at which point, I’ll buy blades in bulk at a couple cents a piece.
Secondhand shaving scuttle and soap, $3 total
What’s more? These are the best shaves I’ve ever had. Incredibly close and smooth on the cheeks and jaw; the neck has taken more practice, but it’s closer than ever with no more nicks or razorburn that with a cartridge. It takes two to three times as long at this point — one pass it all is takes with a cartridge, because the second and third blades take off the first couple layers of skin.  But I’m getting faster, and when you know you’re saving money and can feel the difference when you do it well, a few more minutes seems worthwhile.
What’s pictured is all you really need: a razor and blades, a brush, a mug, and soap — and really, your palm can sub for the mug. $15 to $20 to get started. Bottom line: If you’re not gonna grow your beard out like my dad, then shave like your granddad — you’ll get more shave for way less money.

All Sugared Up, or Birthday Blitz Wrap-Up

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 A friend said the other day that it seems like we have a birthday a week in our family during the summer. That’s not quite true, but this year it has felt that way: the day before Jodi’s fiesta was Trevor’s ninth birthday, which included presents and cake. My bride’s party was a few weeks ahead of her actual birthday, and featured a wide range of delicious foods including not one, but two cakes — bringing the total that weekend to three.

Something similar happened last weekend: Jodi’s real, true birthday was Saturday, and Emma and I conspired on a pineapple upside-down cake (which was not from a mix and oh-so-delicious). But since Emma doesn’t like pineapple, she asked that we pick up a vanilla cake mix and vanilla frosting at the store so she could bake a second cake she would enjoy. Unbeknownst to me, she had also made some fondant at a friend’s house some days before and was anxious to try her hand at covering a cake.

Experiment with fondant

Whether because the fondant wasn’t completely fresh, the recipe, or something else, the fondant wouldn’t hold together at any thickness less than about a quarter inch — and Emma frosted the cake beneath the thick blanket, creating a tasty vanilla cake covered in insanely sweet Playdough. (The boys mocked Emma for it until Jodi and I reminded them how much she bakes for us; in the end, even she agreed it was too much.)

Gabe at 2:23 p.m. on his birthday
Sunday, then, was Gabe’s 13th birthday: Waffles and bacon and a new Facebook account in the morning, but (he insisted) no presents until 2:23 p.m., the minute he was born — then antiquing (he bought a ginormous old pop bottle we’d never seen before), lasagna and garlic bread, altar server at 6 p.m. Mass, and (you guessed it) cake! More specifically, brownies — but still, three cakes in a weekend once again. We played Phase 10, and the kids were more than a little wound up; I on the other hand, crashed quickly and became surly. Lily kept climbing up to (and nearly onto) the table to grab people’s cards. It was sheer, sugared chaos — and all in all, a good day.
We haven’t had a birthday party for Trevor, due to Jodi’s party, nor for Gabe, due to her actual birthday — so we’ll have at least two more small celebrations before the summer’s out. Just two cakes to go!

Birthday Mix-Tape

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It’s my bride’s birthday today, and I thought I resurrect an old tradition of sorts and give her an online version of a birthday mix tape. Now, back in the day, mix tapes were great for a couple reasons:

  • First, when you’re short on dough, a blank Maxell is downright affordable.
  • Second, when you and your gal have vastly different tastes in music, a well-chosen mix can ensure that the next time you’re in the car together, you’ll both enjoy the tunes — you because they’re yours, and she, because they were hand-picked and “mean something.”
Can you feel the love? This is more of an EP, but nevertheless — here goes. (Sorry about the ads and redirects.)
“Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground” by The White Stripes



First off, The White Stripes are the one band the whole family agrees on. Secondly, this was the first song we ever heard of theirs. Third, lines like the opening: Dead leaves and the dirty ground when I know you’re not around/Shiny tops and soda pops when I hear your lips make a sound…

* * * * *

“I Will Wait” by Mumford and Sons

Now I’ll be bold 
As well as strong 
And use my head alongside my heart 
So tame my flesh 
And fix my eyes 
A tethered mind freed from the lies 

Enough said…


* * * * *
“New State of Mind” by Matt Maher


She is alot like grace. And mercy. Next to you I’m more than alright…

* * * * *
“Before My Time” by Johnny Cash

This says it all, in Johnny Cash’s baritone. Plus, beer is mentioned, and dusty books.  Better even than “Grow Old With You.”

* * * * *

Happy birthday, love — here’s to many, many more years together!

Lily Speaks Up

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Our daughters on Saturday morning…

I’m told that parents are not supposed to compare their children to each other, but how can you not? What we know best about parenting we know from experience, so when some new ailments manifests itself, or child number four does something as yet unseen or unexpected, you noticed.

For example: our number five, Lily, has begun to speak more slowly than her older siblings. We attribute this primarily to the fact that her siblings do the talking for her, anticipating her needs and filling in the blanks – she need only whine, whimper, grunt, or shriek, and her desires are addressed. Lately, however, she is becoming more verbal, showing her strengths, her weaknesses … and a budding sense of humor.

She loves her family, and has said Momma or Mommy for a long time now, and Dada or Daddy only slightly later. Emma came easy, and her hero worship from her eldest brother led to his name being next in her vocabulary: Nennen at first; now Denden.

Among her next words were nanee (banana), and gog and guck (for our Schnauzer Puck). She was a little slower with her other brothers, but that’s fair: they’ve been a little slower with her, as well. Trevor, as she warmed to him was Ruh-ruh, then Reh-Ruh, and now Chreh-ruh.

She then said all of these names for weeks, but we couldn’t get her to say Gabe or Gabey. We couldn’t trick her, couldn’t coerce her – nothing worked; she just looked at him and held her tongue. Then last week she began to call him Abba – which given his priestly inclinations, seemed almost mystical (it’s Hebrew for “father”). That was cool, but only lasted for a couple of days before it devolved (we thought) into Abluh or Uh-bluh. (Gabe quickly tired of everyone asked Lily who he was, or saying, “Lily … where’s Uh-bluh?”)

It seemed like a step backward, until once a couple days ago, when Lily saw Gabe’s photo and said, “Ay-bluh.” You could almost hear Gabriel in her syllables – she knows what she wants to say, but can’t quite articulate it yet.

She is trying out other words, as well, that show up in humorous (and sometimes trying) ways. For example, when we tell her not to do something (or when she is about to do something she knows she shouldn’t), she looks at Jodi or me and says, “no, no, NO!” in a tone that suggests nag, nag, NAG! And one night when she was being clingy and fussy, I made the mistake of steering her away from Jodi by stepping between them, putting my arm around my bride, and saying, “MY mommy!”

I thought it was funny in the moment – but a day or so later, I returned home from work, walked into the kitchen, and kissed my wife, only to see Lily march over, grab her pant leg, and say, “MY MOMMY!” Now she walks around the house claiming everything in her reach: “My mommy, my Denden, mine, mine, MINE.”

Nice going, Dad.

Finally, a couple nights ago we’re seated at the table eating supper, and everyone’s chattering away. It’s hard to listen to five kids at once, and Lily is repeating the same monosyllable over and over, so I’ve tuned her out temporarily.

Finally I focused in, and see that she’s leaning across the table, looking insistently at me as she speaks.

What did she say?

“Jehm. Jehm. Jehm! JEHM!”

“Wait a minute!” I say, and the table quiets. “Lily, who am I?”

She grins. “Jehm.”

“Who?”

“Jehm.”

Jodi and the kids are giggling. “Who?” I ask again.

“Jehm!”

“Lily, who am I really?” I say, mock sternly.

She grins until it wrinkles her nose. “Daddy!” she says.

She loves this game now. She won’t call Jodi anything except Momma or Mommy – though she knows her name, too; ask her to give Jodi a hug and see.

I know, I know – it’s not the first time a child has done something precious (or precocious) while taste-testing words. But for us, it could be the last. Jehm is enjoying it, and so is Daddy.