Going through last year’s Spring Break Short Story Recommendations, I came across the first one of 2021, a delicious little tale of Caribbean horror, Henry S. Whitehead‘s “Black Tancrède.”
It’s a weird little story, but a fun one. I won’t prattle on too long—here’s me one year ago in “Spring Break Short Story Recommendations 2021, Part I: ‘Black Tancrède’“:
Today’s Spring Break Short Story Recommendation 2022 comes from a very old, very tattered collection of short stories I purchased probably twenty or more years ago. I think I picked it up on a trip with my grandparents when I was somewhere between the ages of ten and thirteen, the amorphous “tween” years.
The collection is called, simply, Short Story Masterpieces, and boasts Robert Penn Warren as one of its editors (the other being Albert Erskine). I have a vague recollection of attempting to read some of the stories in our hotel room the night that I bought it, and realized that these stories were way over my head at that time. I could read the words, but I could not comprehend them, at least not fully.
However, one story that always stuck out to me was John Collier‘s “Witch’s Money.” I probably flipped to that story because it had “witch” in the title, and even back then ghost stories and the like fascinated me. The story—which was published in The New Yorker in 1939—has little to do with hags and haunts, but instead explores a fatal misunderstanding about the nature of “cheques” (or “checks” to my fellow American readers).
As is my custom, I dedicate a few days each Spring Break to recommending and reviewing various short stories. Typically, I read through an anthology of short stories over break and highlight three or four of the best stories from them.
However, I neglected to take an anthology with me when I left town for Easter weekend, and I didn’t have the time to pluck one from my parents’ substantial library. So, I’m doing a one-off today (and possibly for other Spring Break Shorty Story Recommendation 2022 installments this week), although I am sure this story has appeared in many anthologies.
The story is E.M. Forster’s “The Machine Stops,” which I wrote about in brief in another post in April 2020, during the early days of The Age of The Virus. The Z Man wrote about it in one of his posts from the time, which intrigued me enough to read the story.
It is, I believe, one of the great works of prophetic science fiction. There’s a great deal of that from the mid-twentieth century; Forster was predicting things like FaceTime and social media in 1909.
Here’s hoping everyone had a wonderful Easter weekend. I’m pretty sure my foot is broken, but I’m hoping to see an orthopedist this week. I’m also borrowing an orthopedic boot from my mom, who had foot surgery back in January. The boot works pretty well, and makes me feel like a cyborg—a low-rent, non-threatening RoboCop (1987). I’ll keep y’all updated, but I think I am going to be fine.
Speaking of mild tragedies, my #9 pick for my list of my Top Ten Worst Films is 1984’s Rocktober Blood, a visually low-quality, goofy film with great songs.
Happy Easter—He is Risen!
As Easter always falls on a Sunday (by definition), this weekend’s Lazy Sunday marks the second one dedicated specifically to the holiday (the first one was 4 April 2021’s “Lazy Sunday CVII: Easter“). This second Easter post will, honestly, repeat most of the posts from last year, with a couple of new ones to round out the Easter eggs:
Happy Easter!
—TPP
Other Lazy Sunday Installments:
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As is my custom, it’s time for my annual Easter Weekend post (read “Easter Weekend” and “Easter Weekend 2021” if you’d like to track the posts over time). Easter Weekend is always doubly special for yours portly, as it marks the beginning of my Spring Break.
Unfortunately, on the first morning of my long-anticipated (and much-needed) break, a freak accident befell me. My beloved dog, Murphy, and I were out walking. I had some breakfast in the oven, and realized we needed to get back in the next five minutes.
Murphy—as bull terriers are wont to be—is very stubborn, especially when she picks up the scent of cats (or vermin). I usually can get her to follow along with me if I tug her and start running; she will then trot along to keep up.
I began my usual tug-trot procedure, when Murphy suddenly turned a full ninety degrees and ran—at top speed!—directly into my right ankle. I heard a crunch and collapsed to the ground.
Miraculously, I managed to hang onto her leash. She’d seen a couple of cats darting by, and—without regard for her human—crippled me in her would-be pursuit.
Angry and wounded, but still not feeling the full effects, as my adrenaline was pumping, I attempted to drag her homeward. She resisted, and slipped from her collar. Murphy then resumed her chase of the poor felines.
I limped over to her—she had the cats scrambling up a porch post, fleeing for their nine lives—but before I could get the collar back on her, she darted across the highway after the cats (it may also have been another stray cat—we have a problem with them here), right as a Darlington County Sheriff’s deputy went rolling by. In my limping, disheveled state, he must have taken pity on me. If so, I thank him for not writing me a ticket for my dog being off-leash.
So I proceeded to limp across US-401 to my friend’s mother-in-law’s house, where Murphy was pursuing her quarry through her bushes. She then trotted up onto the porch, and as I slowly climbed the steps, she trotted back out, looking at me as if to say, “Hey, dad, what’s up?”
Thus began our gimped walk home—and she still resisted. We finally made it back to a burnt (but still edible!) breakfast.
I stuck to the full day of lessons I had that afternoon, literally dragging my foot from one house to the next (driving, fortunately, was not difficult). I think I overdid it here, but $150 was on the line, and if I was going to end up at a doctor’s office, I’d need that much (at least) for whatever ungodly medical bills I might face.
As of the time of this writing (Good Friday!), I still have not been to a doctor to X-ray the foot, but a long night’s sleep really helped. The foot is still swollen, though that’s gone done, and with the aid of a cane—yes, I am walking with a cane, care of a good neighbor—I can get around with minimal pain. Thursday night it had gotten excruciating to walk around, but now I can bumble around the house without too much inconvenience.
So, now that I’ve regaled you with tales of my recent crippling, here’s what’s in store for Easter 2022:
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Hi TPP Readers,
I wanted to send along some Easter weekend updates. To celebrate Holy Week, I’ve released a free collection of recordings on Bandcamp, The Lo-Fi Hymnal II. It is free to download (though you can pay more if you wish).
I’ve also cut the price of ALL of my paintings to $10. Free shipping in the United States. I also have two new paintings for Easter (and soon a third): “Easter Eggs” and “Neon Cross.”
Here’s wishing you all a safe and happy Easter Weekend!
—TPP
It’s Good Friday in the Western Church, so I thought I’d spotlight the friends that need our support the most: our local churches.
Your local churches will obviously be quite different than mine, but I would encourage every Christian reader to give to your local church this weekend. If you are not tithing to a church already, start doing so! Only 5% of churchgoers tithe, but American Christians earn $5.2 trillion annually. Imagine the transformative impact if every Christian gave ten percent. That could feed, clothe, and shelter a lot of people. It would also be an incredible witness to Christians’ commitment to their faith.
Here it is: my annual call to end the income tax. My disdain for the income tax is two-fold: it’s incredibly annoying and invasive to file it every year; and it’s become a complicated, bureaucratic morass that attempts to social engineer our society by tweaking bits of the tax code.
I think there are downsides to a consumption tax—a national sales tax—but it makes way more sense than a tax on income. Any tax is a disincentive to engage in the activity taxed, and no tax is perfect. Being a necessity—perhaps an evil one—we should at least try to get the least bad tax possible.
Taxing income, then, is a disincentive to earning more income. I faithfully track every dollar I earn in private lessons—even those paid in cash!—even though the tax burden is insane. I suspect many Americans do not do the same, so there is already de facto tax evasion baked into an income tax.
A national sales tax would be virtually unavoidable. That might be an argument against it. Here’s an argument for it: it would be a major disincentive against spending. At a time when inflation is rocketing prices skyward, I don’t expect that such a proposal—which would make everything more expensive—will be very popular, but it would almost certainly encourage saving money.
Of course, you’d soon have all the other problems. Industries would lobby for exemptions to the sales tax. Should food be taxed? If so, should it be taxed at the same rate as, say, computers?
Ah, well, forget it. Let’s repeal the Sixteenth Amendment and let the chips fall where they may. Tariffs aren’t so bad, eh?
With that, here is “TBT^2: End the Income Tax“:
Easter is just a few days away, and churches will be filled to bursting with twice-a-year “Christians,” people that still feel some vague sense that they should go to church on Easter and at Christmas, even if they can’t quite articulate why, and don’t attend for most of the rest of the year.
That church attendance is in decline is no mystery. Sure, there are plenty of nominal Christians who attend church regularly for their own reasons—the social aspects, the opportunities for professional development and career advancement, etc.—who aren’t truly Believers, but since we cannot know the content of one’s heart, church attendance is a pretty good gauge for religiosity in the United States.
I live in the rural South, so there are churches on every street corner. There are tiny cinderblock buildings in the middle of nowhere with names like “First Church of the Holy Apostolic Prophecy” that look like tool sheds that have been converted into places of worship. There are decadent megachurches. There are churches that date back centuries, and churches that were planted a week ago.
Yet even here, Biblical illiteracy stuns me. Sure, I’m one of those guys who knows that something is “in the Bible,” even if I can’t always place exactly where it is (that’s what Bing is for). But when I write “Biblical illiteracy,” I mean that people lack a basic understanding of the simplest Bible stories.
I’ve related this anecdote elsewhere, but I’ll never forget teaching a philosophy class years ago in which we were discussing Danish Christian existentialist philosopher Søren Kierkegaard. Kierkegaard famously argued that attempts to prove the existence of God rhetorically, logically, or otherwise were the philosophical equivalents of building the Tower of Babel—man’s Gnostic attempt to “reach” God, not to be close to Him, but to challenge God’s Supremacy.
The Tower of Babel is Vacation Bible School 101—really, it’s Sunday School 101. The Tower of Babel would be Track 2, Side 1 of The Old Testament’s Greatest Hits, if such an album existed.
Despite that, none of my students knew the story of the Tower of Babel. Even a young lady who was a very committed Christian did not remember the story, and I know her parents, at the very least, had taught it to her!
The Portly Politico 