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What's in the banner?
Sunday, March 09, 2003
I really don't need to call your attention to this bit of drivel in the Guardian, as Emily or Andrea already have, but I just couldn't resist the author's name: Merope Mills.
Merope Mills, Merope Mills, what a beautiful, beautiful name.
Sounds like a housing development,
Or a shopping center,
Just the same.
I don't know how Ms. Mills pronounces her first name, but another bearer of it (the big one nearest the bottom of the picture, the dusty one) pronounces it MAIR-o-pee. I wonder if Ms. Mills has sisters Alcyone, Asterope, Celaeno, Elektra, Maia, and Taygete. (Here is probably more than you want to know about Merope and her sisters.)
Possibly Ms. Mills pronounces it to rhyme with Mope, her tone throughout this article.
Her prose reminds me forcefully of one half of this Internet Golden Oldie. See if you can guess which one.
"That was my first summer of love, when "Spotty" Snape and I began fumbling toward adulthood, out back of the gazebo during the village fete..."
"Why, oh why can't the nations of the world work together to outlaw war and terrorism and support love for all?"
"Oh, those were the alcyone...er, halcyon...days. We demonstrated for the addition of kimchee to the campus cafeteria, for the establishment of a Department of Autogratification Studies, and against having to cough up a sixpence for our own educations..."
ATTENTION: MAGGOT! DID YOUR MAMA FORGET TO PACK YOU A FRESH SET OF UNDIES BEFORE SHE SENT YOU OUT INTO THE BIG COLD WORLD? WELL, WE'RE JUST GOING TO HAVE TO CALL YOU "STINKY", THEN, AREN'T WE?
Look, Mopey, I grew up in the Sixties and Seventies, right smack dab in the middle of the Impending Doom years. I am the child who never knew what it was like not to live in fear, if you could use that phrase to describe someone who spent the Cold War deep in peaceful and prosperous Western territory, someone whose main worry during that awful time was thinking up good names for her large herd of plastic horses.
Some people used this excuse to become all wild and uncontrolled. You see that in old books and TV shows---kids moaning about how they lived under the Shadow of the Bomb, and when the world's gonna end any moment, why shouldn't they take whatever shallow satisfaction they kind find in the moment? Like, heavy, man.
Others did what some of your contemporaries are doing now---using current events as cover for their youthful propensities to riot and scream. Just like you, they were gonna make the world safe for peace and justice and love and little yellow duckies. And to their absolute horror, they succeeded, at least in the larger things, and with no more world to save, had to go and get real jobs.
Some of them, however, never grew up. They're the ones leading your little pro-tyranny protests right now. If you're unlucky, you'll be one of those, and in thirty years you'll be in Iraq agitating on behalf of a Sunni who suffered great mental anguish when a Jewish shopkeeper dared to wish him happiness on a Shia holiday.
And, of course, the sixties were nothing compared to the forties. SO GROW A DAMNED SPINE.
In an only tangentially-related development, the Guardian continues to uphold its reputation as the most pathetic rag in the Anglosphere with this article on blogging. This is the most germaine point:
'Cause that's my day job. In my off hours I mock pouting adolescents writing in the Guardian.
Via A Small Victory.