The S is for Solomon.

Today's topic is: How Captain Marvel was ruined, phase three. By Captain Marvel I mean the one that comes into being when Billy Batson says the magic word Shazam, not the various Captains Marvel that Marvel Comics has coughed up over the years. (That was phase two.)

Captain Marvel's ruination, phase one, was when DC Comics sued Fawcett, claiming that Cap was a rip-off of Superman, and won in 1951. DC later got hold of the Fawcett characters but sat on them for years. Eventually they started publishing new stories featuring the man called by his foes the Big Red Cheese. 

But today I want to discuss how the character was ruined by DC after I stopped being a regular reader of comic books. It ties into to other issues in our so-called culture, trust me. 

First, as you may be aware, the word Shazam is an initialism. It stands for the fabled personalities from whom Captain Marvel gets his superpowers: 

Solomon (wisdom)

Hercules (strength)

Atlas (stamina)

Zeus (sheer all-around power)

Achilles (courage)

Mercury (speed)

We have here a mashup of Greek and Roman names (like Hercules and Mercury rather than the Greek Herakles and Hermes), but that's forgivable. If all Roman names had been used (like Jupiter instead of Zeus) it would have been Shajam, and that sounds pretty bad. But the one figure that is not from myth, Solomon, is Biblical and historical. He really doesn't go with the others. Athena (in Roman, Minerva) would have been a mythical choice for wisdom. But that would have involved an icky girl, and then the magic word would be Ahazam or Mhazam, and those are pretty bad. 

The problem with Captain Marvel is that, while supposedly having the wisdom of Solomon, he's been turned into a dumbbell. 

This all started in the late 1980s, when DC was doing major reboots to its legacy characters. Prior to this point, Billy and Captain Marvel were two distinct characters -- they shared knowledge (when Billy turned into Captain Marvel, Cap knew what was going on), but they referred to each other as separate people even in their thoughts. Not that Billy was not a clever and resourceful boy; he could often accomplish things that big, conspicuous Marvel could not. It was hard to tell where one began and the other ended sometimes, except that Marvel had the attributes of the seven legendary personas, and Billy did not. 

Veteran writer Roy Thomas and his wife Dann decided it would be better if Billy's mind remained in Captain Marvel's body when the magic transformation happened. The problem is, Billy then cannot have the wisdom of Solomon; he only has his own mental capacity. Ditto, to a lesser degree, the courage of Achilles. Ever since, writers of less talent and respect for source material have treated Captain Marvel like a dopey child -- especially in the recent live-action and animated movies. He's essentially a preteen boy in the body of a superpowered man. 

This does not say much for the value of his supposed wisdom. Wisdom is thought of as an attribute or gift, sometimes gotten through hard experience, and distinct from intelligence. Intelligence helps you do math or learn languages; wisdom helps you know why these are good things and what the best means to deploy intellect and other gifts is. In the role-playing game Dungeons and Dragons, Intelligence and Wisdom have always been separate characteristics, and characters who score high in one or the other will pursue different paths.

In the Catholic faith, wisdom is thought of as one of the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit. (The others are understanding, counsel, fortitude, knowledge, piety, and fear of God.) In fact, Solomon's own wisdom is definitely recorded as a gift of God. In 1 Kings 5:3, God promises to give King Solomon whatever he asks for. Solomon says: 

You have shown great kindness to your servant, David my father, because he walked before you with fidelity, justice, and an upright heart; and you have continued this great kindness toward him today, giving him a son to sit upon his throne. Now, LORD, my God, you have made me, your servant, king to succeed David my father; but I am a mere youth, not knowing at all how to act—I, your servant, among the people you have chosen, a people so vast that it cannot be numbered or counted. Give your servant, therefore, a listening heart to judge your people and to distinguish between good and evil. For who is able to give judgment for this vast people of yours?

God is pleased by this response, which shows Solomon is pretty wise already. God tells him: 

Because you asked for this—you did not ask for a long life for yourself, nor for riches, nor for the life of your enemies—but you asked for discernment to know what is right—I now do as you request. I give you a heart so wise and discerning that there has never been anyone like you until now, nor after you will there be anyone to equal you.

Does that sound like it would result in the mind of a preteen boy? 

That's not the Captain Marvel we had, but that's the Captain Marvel we got now. Much like a lot of things-- newspapers, Congress, universities -- he looks like the same as he once did but is dumber than he used to be.

🗱🗱🗱

Side note: Don't feel too bad for Athena/Minerva. Billy Batson has a sister, Mary Batson, and she was given the power to use the Shazam word to become Mary Marvel. But she does not get her powers from the same personas. At least, when she made her debut in 1942, her powers came from: 

Selena (grace)

Hippolyta (strength)

Ariadne (skill)

Zephyrus (fleetness)

Aurora (beauty)

Minerva (wisdom)

They've changed a little over the years, but M still stands for Minerva, so there's that. For all purposes, she was considered pretty much the girl version from the beginning -- almost but not quite as powerful as Cap himself, regardless of where the powers came from. 

Advice.

I have a coffee mug from the Unemployed Philosophers Guild that was a Secret Santa gift. It features the first lines of famous works of literature, and in tiny print on the mug's bottom it shows which book each line came from. I like the mug; it's a good size for a cup of coffee, and it's dishwasher safe. And I've read a good number of the books cited, too. 

As the handle is pointing to my right hand, the line that looms the largest is the opener from The Great Gatsby: "In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since."

I didn't recall what Nick's father had told him, so I looked it up: "Whenever you feel like criticizing any one, just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages you've had."

It's a great way to start the book and establish the crucial theme, and I'm sure Mr. Fitzgerald would be glad that I approve. The thing that I started to turn over in my own mind is this: Nick's father had a lot of words compared to my old man. My late father was not a chatter. Nor was he much for giving advice. He had been raised by non-chatty parents, and had to learn many things the hard way, and it was the only way he knew. Plus, he knew that most boys only heed advice after the fact anyhow.  

The only direct pieces of advice I can ever recall him giving me are:

• "It's a great life if you don't weaken."
• "You gotta work."
• "Never steal anything small."

And that's about it. 

On the other hand, he demonstrated by his life that you had to be responsible for your actions, you had to be willing to work, you had to treat others and their property with respect, and you had to be strong when things were looking bad. 

So, maybe I won't get the first line of a novel from the things he said, but I got a lot from what he did. As they say, more is caught than taught. 

Wise words.

"Max, Grandpa doesn't have much time. Hurry down. He wants to see you."

Sure enough, Grandpa had taken a turn. He lay in the hospital bed white as the sheet, the only color on the old man from his big brown spectacle frames and the little blue dots on his gown.

"Give us a minute," he told everyone else, and shooed them out with shaky hands.

I knelt by his bed. "I'm here, Grandpa."

"I know." He sighed. "There are some important things you need to know, Sam."

"Max."

"Max, yeah. I knew it was one of those three-letter names."

"Uh-huh."

"With an A in the middle."

"Like Pam or Tag."

"Right. So I-- Tag?"

"Short for Taggart. Anyway, I'm here. Max."

"Who the hell names his kid Taggart?"

"I don't know. I had two of them in my high school."

"Dumb first name."

"Okay, fine. You wanted to say something?"

"Yeah, Sam, it's important."

"Max."

"I'm not Max, I'm Ralph."

"No, I'm Max, not Sam."

"Of course you are. Who's Sam?"

"I don't know."

"Then why do you keep bringing him up?"

"Ah... no idea."

"Must be related to your friend Taggart."

"Undoubtedly."

"Max, I have some words of wisdom before I go to the Great Beyond."

"Yes, Grandpa."

"Are you ready?"

"Yes, Grandpa."

"You don't look ready. You didn't shave."

"It's the modern look. Looks rugged."

"Really? In my day we killed Commies and built skyscrapers and we all shaved. Now you sit at a desk and play with toys and you don't shave."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Rugged. Huh."

"Okay, I'll shave."

"Good. But that's not the wise words."

"Okay."

"Here they come."

"Great."

"Listen closely."

"Righto."

"It's... don't go cheap on the toilet paper."

"...."

"Well?"

"That's it?"

"What? It's important. You're a young man, you want to save money and get ahead, but I'm telling you, you go cheap on the toilet paper, you'll regret it."

"I see."

"You think the roll is cheap, but you have to use twice as much of it."

"Right."

"It makes a mess."

"Yeah, that's--"

"And sometimes it feels like it's sanding down your hinder and you wind up walking funny."

"Buy expensive toilet paper. Got it."

"I didn't say to go spending all your money on toilet paper, I just said don't go cheap."

"Noted."

"No need to max out your cards on TP."

"That would be silly."

"There's no need for gold-plated toilet paper."

"I suppose that might be a little uncomfortable anyway."

"Not absorbent, no."

"Yeah. Okay, well, Grandpa, thanks for the wise words."

"Oh, sure, Tag, that's fine."

"I'm Max."

"Oh, yeah, that's right. Tag is Sam's brother."

"You bet, Grandpa."

"I love you, Max."

"I love you too, Grandpa."

I left to summon back the others, but in the minute I was gone, Grandpa had passed away.

On the way out of the hospital, my dad asked how I was holding up. "After all, I've lost a father-in-law," he said, "but to you that's a blood relative."

"Yeah, Dad. I'll miss him."

"What was the advice he wanted to give you?"

"Uh... I'm not sure if I should tell anyone. He seemed to want that to be between us." And Sam and Tag, maybe, I thought.

"Sure, son, I understand. Well, I hope it wasn't career advice. He was a wonderful guy, but he always had terrible luck in business."

"Really?"

"You bet. He told me once that he had a big deal ready to go, but had to secure a loan from the bank. Well, for some reason when the meeting came he waddled into the meeting room like a crazy man and the loan fell through. Can you believe it?"

I'd like to see his credentials.

Re-Guru-ted.

"Yes, sorry about the move, but I got to thinking, 'If I'm so wise, why am I freezing my hinder off on this mountain?"'

Inspired by a discussion of great cartoon tropes earlier this week at Lileks's site.

Palm Pilate, or Barabba-Dabba-Doo!

Went to the Vigil Mass last night, because Palm Sunday usually gets a crowd and the Mass can run a good hour and a half. It's a tough Mass because it requires audience participation. As I noted a couple of years ago, we get all the stupid dialogue, too.

"We want Barabbas!"

Morons.

We don't know much about the Barabbas in question, except that he was a notorious thief, some sort of rebel, maybe a murderer, possibly the son of a rabbi (based on the etymology of the name Barabbas), and was played by Stacy Keach in the epic Jesus of Nazareth. 

Not a lot of mustache for this part.

Swedish author Pär Lagerkvist wrote a novel about the man, published in 1950. Unlike a lot of novels based on the New Testament (Ben-Hur, The Robe, Quo Vadis), there's no joy or sacrifice or salvation in Barabbas. The character based on the man is a thug, a man who ultimately would like to believe in Christ but is incapable of giving or receiving love, and dies in his sins. This is the kind of book Scandinavians enjoy -- loveless people who embrace despair. That's why they gave Bob Dylan the Nobel Prize. (Kidding!)

I don't quite agree with the Swedes. I don't see a great story of salvation in Barabbas, either. I just think of him and so many other figures in the Gospels as I probably would have been had I been there, someone deeply protective of his self-interests and desiring nothing that would lead to more trouble, like, say, following the cult of a crucified savior. I probably would have been as far away from Calvary as I could possibly be.

The Romans were no joke in their occupation. I've always been a little sympathetic toward Pontius Pilate, stuck in this dusty outpost with these ungovernable people and trying not to look bad before his cruel bosses in Rome. Then again, he was marked by your average Roman cruelty; he doesn't want to have Jesus killed because he sees no fault in the guy, but he's fine with flaying him half to death. I was quite taken by Rod Steiger's portrayal in Jesus of Nazareth; yeah, Steiger liked to overact, but he seemed to get the measure of the man. I am sure I have also been unduly influenced by the sympathetic portrayal of Pilate in Mikhail Bulgakov's famous novel The Master and Margarita. 

But if I'd been a Jew in Jerusalem, I'd have gone nowhere near any Romans if I could help it.

When I was confirmed I was supposed to receive the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit: Wisdom, Understanding, Counsel, Fortitude, Knowledge, Piety, and Fear of the Lord. I think readers of this blog will agree that many of these don't apply to me (Wisdom! Ha!), and I can assure you that Fortitude, also known as the Spirit of Courage, seems to have been lost in transit with the others.

"We want Barabbas"?

I'd have been saying, "Feet, don't fail me now!"

Character?

[NB: This was an entry I had written for the old, defunct Blog.com blog five or more years ago. I came across it on my hard drive and didn't know why I'd saved a copy. But I think it still holds up.]

While reading an article about social media and the oversharing generation behind mine, I thought about how many of the youngsters will come to regret their youthful exuberance, having written too much about themselves in public, and the impact it had on careers and relationships.

And I thought about their possible response to that proposition, as the kind of thing I would have thought in my youth: This is who I am, we’re different from you old guys, I find this right and proper and so I will never have to change my opinion, etc.

The ability to take up big gestures and poses is important for the youth, even over frivolous things. And although they won’t believe it, their opinions about these things may change, and possibly a sickly regret will sink in—even shame. The problem is the important things they stand for also may be revised.

It’s not a problem because they change their minds about taste or politics or best practices or even ethics or religion; any thinking person is entitled and expected to be able to do so. The permanent record of the Internet makes it harder to change direction; no one wants to look like a waffler. And yet that can be overcome if one finds that truth has dispelled his illusions (or, it should be said, vice versa).

The real problem is when they abandon principles because of frustrated expectations.

When you’re young you think you’ll do great things and be thought of highly by many, and so you may be willing to pay a high price for some decisions, certain you’ll be proved right in the end. The career passed by for love of something unremunerative; the marriage straight out of high school; the protest movement or general strike or even act of violence; even the rebellion against those closest to you have the romantic tinge that whispers of future justification. It may reflect great depths of character to do some of these things, or at least appear to.

(You may note I left joining the military off the list; for one, it’s something of unquestionable nobility, so I do not dispute that; for another thing, it brings with it all the rewards of discipline and honor that I hope make it an unregrettable decision.)

But when the great gesture does not work out? When the acting career derails, the protest is ignored, the marriage sags into misery, and no one around really cares? Is it like the tattoo that one gets more out of emotion than reason and comes to regret? The harmony of romanticism ends, and the dream dies hard, and (here’s the rub) takes the character down with it.

Or was it even character?

How many young people would choose to do something grand if no one would ever know about it? There’s always a sense of playing to the audience. The old definition of character remains: doing the right thing when no one is watching. If your dream fails and you turn bitter, cynical, even angry, then it’s hard to say it was character at all. Just youthful ego. It’s like being someone who is bound to fight for justice, then taking a hard punch, and, while on the ground, wondering if justice is all that important after all. (Which is why a good punch is always helpful for developing humility. People without any humility are, as a rule of thumb, jerks.) You may decide that, although you were right all along, the world has treated you badly and so you deserve whatever you can swipe from it. So there, world!

But what about old-timers who survive success or failure or both and retain a good outlook and a desire to do things right? They have character, and it is solid. Those people can be counted upon to do right.

So young people must be distrusted until they prove that their character outlasts their romanticism. You can’t trust the character of someone who’s never taken a punch.

Never trust anyone under forty. As for people forty and over, you can tell which ones are bastards—the angry people and the people who have never had to endure failure at all—and distribute your trust accordingly.

Old sayings.

One bit of weather wisdom my mom always said -- when appropriate; she didn't just go around repeating it all the time -- was: "Mackerel sky, not 24 hours dry."

Here is a picture of the sky I took yesterday at 9:43 am. Note the fish scale-like clouds skimming the expanse of blue.

And here I sit, 21 hours later, and it's raining.

Plus snow. That counts as non-dry.

I have never known that rhymey bit of folk wisdom to fail. 

I used to hear other Old Farmer's Almanac kind of rhymes, like "Red sky at morning, sailor take warning; red sky at night, sailor's delight." I don't know if that one works. I'm not even sure what that one means. A sailor might be delighted with a good stiff wind that would blow the shingles off my house; that wouldn't be too good for me. Maybe delight refers to something else? That's even scarier -- you know what they say about sailors.

Not all of them rhyme, or work at all. The tale that March either comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb or vice-versa is nonsense. Around here March comes in like a pain in the ass and takes a powder the same way.

Ben Franklin was good at these kinds of maxims, but his don't always rhyme and they're not always predictive. His Poor Richard's Almanack gave us gems like these: 

A false friend and a shadow attend 

only while the sun shines.

Analysis: True. Does not rhyme; is not predictive.

A flatterer never seems absurd: 

The flatter'd always takes his word. 

Analysis: True. Rhymes; is not predictive.

An honest man will receive neither 

money nor praise, that is not his due.

Analysis: True. Does not rhyme; is predictive. 

A cold April

The barn will fill.

Analysis: No idea if true. Sorta rhymes, is predictive. 

I would like to be thought a genius like Franklin, but as I am not a genius, maybe I could at least make a better presentation than he. In other words, write some terrific folk maxims that both rhyme and tell the reader what to expect. Here are some I whipped up just now:

On Saturday you hear the knell

Jehovah's Witness at the bell

Unless you like to be annoyed

All attorneys must avoid

He who discards a lone sock Sunday
Is destined to find its brother Monday

Car wash today

Rain on the way

If you're not careful
When you boff
Nine months later
Mazel tov! 

All right, so they suck. I told you I wasn't a genius. I can't make a famous scientific experiment by flying a key on a kite out there in the rain. Might make headlines, sure, but when Franklin did it he was brilliant; if I did it I'd just be lit up.

If it don't fit, get a bigger hammer.

"Don't force!" was the oft-repeated lesson of my wife's late father. 

Seems to defy the zeitgeist, doesn't it?

Good advice nonetheless. 

A couple of weeks ago I was trying to get enough of the hose off the porch to wash away some dog diarrhea from the yard. Trust me when I say there was no mechanical means of removing it. Well, I have the hose on the porch to water the big pots in which I have planted peppers, tomatoes, flowers---it usually sits coiled up like a well-behaved serpent in my wooden planked garden. So I don't normally have to pull it down the stairs. 

While pulling it down the stairs it got stuck, and before I gave it a good hard yank, I should have remembered two things:

1. Don't force!

2. Rubber hoses are good for 3 things: conveying fluids, roughing up suspects, and acting as drive belts.

Instead I remembered one thing:

1. Hulk smash!

The hose acted like a belt, rolling one of the super huge pots containing little pepper sprouts right off the porch and down the steps. 

Plant triage and emergency treatment was required. It was a messy job and it took so long my wife was wondering where I'd wandered off to. Ultimately I got every little plantling back in the dirt, and I think I saved them all. Why? Because I was very careful with them. I didn't force.

My father-in-law was a good man of good advice. My own father was a good man of no good advice. I don't know why, but my father was completely incapable of using his language skills to convey instruction. He could not teach anyone anything. Or maybe it was just his uninterested children that caused him to lose heart. Maybe in a work environment he was teaching people to do things left and right. But I doubt it---most people wouldn't have known it, but I think he was a shy man at heart.

My mom said when I was very small I would follow my father around, pulling up the ol' pants just the way he always did, probably just to be like him. So that was one thing I learned from him.

My father taught me many things by the way he did them himself. He taught me his strong work ethic, he taught me to shun debt, he taught me (as it said in the Bible he did not believe, Proverbs 22:29) that men skilled in their labor will stand before kings. I wish he'd taught me things like how to put on a new engine belt or install a new electrical outlet without killing myself, but I wouldn't have been listening anyway, probably. One thing he showed without putting into words: Don't force. Sometimes you need that little push of adrenaline for a heavy job, but even so, it's only in movies that we do things better when we're angry.

I miss my dad today, and my wife's dad. Sometimes I still feel like a boy in a man's body. But when I do behave like a man ought to, it's because I followed the example of those who came before me.

Happy Father's Day.

Wise guy.

Lately it seems like everyone wants my opinion. Everyone wants a piece of Fred. They finally realize that my lifetime of experience has given me wisdom desirable to all. Some old timers complain that by the time they know everything no one wants to hear it, but clearly that's not the case for me.

The first call came from Buffalo. Not an actual buffalo. They don't know about my smartiness. No, my phone said it was a call from the city of Buffalo, a town I've been to a few times. I was glad that they finally realized that they needed some Freddin'.

"Hi."

"Hello, sir, I am calling from the New York State Department of Health and we are conducting a survey of New York residents ages 18 and older. Have I reached a cellular phone number?"

"Yes."

"Are you driving a vehicle right now?"

"Yes. I'd better hang up." So I did and sat back on the sofa. You can't just dish out the wisdom to everyone.

The very next day I got a call from Syracuse. I hoped that they might have something more interesting to ask me about. "You're on, Syracuse!" I said. "Go!"

"Hello, sir, I am calling from a survey company that is speaking with residents of New York State about their energy usage. Am I speaking to a head of the household or someone who makes decisions about the use of energy in your home?"

"No, sorry, I have a wife. Thank you for calling."

So you see, I was unable to share the wisdom, but not because I was lacking smarts, but because people ask me the wrong questions. As soon as these people get their act together, I'll be happy to help out.

Sing!

A young man climbed the mountain upon which lived the Wise One. Everyone knew that the Wise One was indeed the wisest man ever known, and willing to share his wisdom, but few were willing to make the dangerous climb necessary to consult him.

Jim was one who did want to go. He did not know anything about mountaineering, and his first attempt almost ended in disaster. Jim learned a lot from his trips up the mountain, including how much pain could hurt, but finally, one bright morning, he cheered with gasping breaths as he drew himself over a ledge and found a cave, and outside the cave an old man with a shaggy beard chewing a piece of yak jerky.

“Oh, great Wise One,” said Jim, “I have come to seek your direction.”

The wise one called the Wise One nodded, swallowed, and said, “Speak your question.”

Jim flopped down and, once he caught his breath, said, “I have been assailed as a directionless fool. What should I do with my life?”

The Wise One looked at Jim, gaze meeting gaze, mind meeting mind. Then the Wise One nodded. He closed his eyes and sat motionless, so long that Jim thought the man had fallen asleep, so long that Jim began to fear he had died.

Suddenly the eyes snapped open, the head and came up, and the creaky old voice spoke: “You…must sing!” he said.

“Sing?” said Jim, astonished.

“You must,” said the Wise One. “Sing,” he added.

“Like, actually sing musical songs?” said Jim. “Because I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. I forget words; every song would be called ‘The One That Goes Dee Dee Dee’ if I wrote it. I know nothing of music. I don’t know which end of a trombone the music comes out of. I have the natural rhythm of a drunken earthworm. How can you tell me to sing?”

The old man simply shook his head and said, “You must…sing.”

Jim could get nothing more from the old man, so he took the treacherous journey down and went home, wondering what to do. Exhausted, he collapsed into bed, thinking. No one would believe Jim if he told them that the Wise One said singing was his destiny… and yet, that’s what had happened. Somehow, this was his purpose.

The next morning he arose, determined to follow this path.

He thought that destiny would carry him---after all, he had never tried singing publicly, and maybe some mighty force would cling to his boldness as like is pulled to like. Jim set up a box in the square and climbed on top, and began to sing every song to which he knew some of the words. He did this for a week. In that period he had more old shoes and empty cans flung at him than any five stray cats in town.

Jim realized that he’d been waiting for magic, but destiny was not magic. It was a destination.

He started taking music lessons that day. He took singing lessons. He took music theory. He took music history. He sold his little home to pay for it. He got a job selling sheet music, singing to make sales, then shutting up because it worked better. He kept learning. He went to open-mike nights. He worked harder. He sang all the time. In his phrase, Jim had singing “out the bazooty” for decades.

Then he went to see the Wise One once more.

Jim was a good deal older now, of course, but he was patient, and slowly made his way up the mountain, stopping as needed to rest and acclimate himself in the cold breeze. After all these years he'd come to wonder if he had hallucinated the old man while stumbling around in the thin mountain air. He did not think so, though, and expected to find the man's remains, and maybe some fossilized yak jerky. 

The Wise One was still at the cave where Jim had left him. He was not a frozen corpse, as Jim thought initially; just the incredibly old man, still breathing. His eyes opened slowly and regarded Jim. 

"You have returned," the Wise One croaked, his voice unused in countless months. 

"You remember me," Jim gasped.

"Of course."

"Then you know you told me I must sing."

"Yes."

"All right," said Jim, when he had recovered his breath, "I thought I'd tell you how it worked out. I have spent decades learning about singing. I have spent decades learning about music. I could draw the Circle of Fifths in my sleep. If you give me a note I can give you its harmonic pitches in a second. I have transcribed music and sold it. I learned to play the trumpet, harmonica, guitar, ukulele, clarinet, and seven other instruments, albeit all poorly. I can give you biographical sketches of every important musician in the last century, every important composer in the last millennium. I have eked out a living on the periphery of the music business, or barely so, spending my entire life on the outside, looking in. Because in the opinion of dozens of music teachers and vocal coaches, hundreds of professional colleagues, and thousands of listeners, I have no talent for singing. I am a failure by every measure." Jim sat back in the snow with a grunt. "I thought you should know," he said at last.

A long time passed. The sun crept lower in the cold, vacant sky. Stars began to twinkle in the east, as lights far below began to twinkle in the town. The breeze quieted. All was still.

Then the Wise One turned his head toward Jim. With an effort, he opened his ancient mouth, and spoke at last. 

"Well," he said, "it was worth a shot."