Fascists of North America

I once had a professor who loved three things in ascending order: his wife, poetry, and birdwatching. His wife was delightful, and I am a fan of poetry, even his own, but birdwatching? I like birds and all, but mostly for eating. Nevertheless, I once accompanied him on a birdwatching jaunt through the woods around the local reservoir. He was, for all his enthusaism and persistence in this hobby, not especially skilled at it. Personally I can't tell a titmouse from an ostrich, but I'm fairly accurate when it comes to discerning the pews from the congregants in the bare ruined choirs. What I mean to say is: Prof, I'm pretty sure that's just a branch, a rock, a drifting cloud, an errant eyelash. Well, I wasn't going to rain on his evident joy in tromping through the woods and trying to confirm wheter that pine cone over there was a bluejay or a kingfisher or a bald eagle. Keep in mind this was Ohio at about the time of year we're at now, which makes anything other than crows in a field a rarity. Anyway, he would haul a gazillionth-edition Audobon a million pages thick from his donnish satchel and try to identify that bush over there. I was reasonably certain there were better guides out there, but once again, the sheer, visceral pleasure he took from the tome struck me as far too lovely and unaffected for any of my bullshit humor. So, we had a nice day in the woods, and afterward he made me some nice tea and his wife gave me a scone.

Innocent pleasure aside, the experience comes back to me every time I stroll over to Goldberg's Liberal Fascism blog, which is a skein of unceasing self-flattery the likes of which the world has never seen. There, witness the tireless efforts of the Goldbergian legions descry the fascisti among the winter brambles. Nothing escapes the long arms of their eyes and eyes of their arms. There isn't a blade of February grass that they can't misidentify not only by species and genus but, hell, by kingdom as a whole. The only true thing that Freud ever said was sometimes a cigar's just a cigar. That point is lost on Jonah G.--fortunately to hilarious effect. I advise getting stoned before you sling your binoculars around your neck and head into the woods, but I definitely recommend it as an hour well spent some bright, chilly afternoon.