I am delighted to announce that my blog, A Chequer-Board of Nights and Days, is now being hosted at The New Ledger's site. You can now find it here.

Many thanks to Ben Domenech and Christopher Badeaux for making this possible, as well as for giving me the responsibility and privilege to serve at TNL as a Senior Editor. I hope that all of you visit Chequer-Board as often as possible and make it a daily stop. There shall be no more blogging on this site, and I hope eventually to be able to redirect the URL to the new site, so I will leave this post on top in order to allow readers to find the new site with ease.

Bruce Lee plays ping-pong . . . his own way:

you are likely not alone. Long story short: there was a hardware issue and the tech folks are trying to see whether they can recover the content. We shall see if it shows up.

UPDATE: The content is back. Excellent.

Gone fishing for the weekend. Blogging will commence anew on Monday. In the meantime, I trust that all and sundry will have ample amounts of fun.

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Mark Kilmer was my friend. While he walked the Earth, he laughed at Death.

He mocked it. Taunted it. Defied it with every second of his existence. No raging at Death with a full, unvarnished Ahabesque fury for him. Rather, his was a style that demonstrated command of Grace and Mischief and he employed those two twin weapons with devastating effect even as Death sought to surround and besiege his life with Panic and Melancholy. That timeless tyrant, which had laid kings and emperors low with fright and terror before taking them was rendered powerless by Mark's cheerful determination and determined cheerfulness. Despite Death's efforts to haunt, to stalk, to torment, its frightful effect was waved away and dismissed as impotent by Mark Kilmer, to whom valiance was second nature. Despite Death's attempted depredations, Mark continued to champion and maintain his peace of mind and with Herculean effort, he created a refuge for himself, for his beloved Diane and for the whole of his family. Until the very end, he gave himself and his loved ones all the comfort and solace that he could muster. And what he could muster was considerable.

Death took Mark Kilmer one day shy of the birthday of his hero--and mine--Ronald Reagan. But Death did not triumph. Death won no victory. This was a hollow taking that should bring the tyrant no joy. As in life, Mark Kilmer, my friend, got the last laugh over Death.

So as I write this, I smile too; despite the redness in my eyes and the wetness of my cheeks. If Mark could laugh at Death, who am I to cower in its wake? If Mark could resolve to defy the tyrant and teach us to do the same by showing us just how valuable life is, who am I to gainsay his example or to oppose his teachings?

To be sure, the loss is powerful enough to cause me to weep at moments of weakness when I forget--even if it is for a moment--Mark's sterling example. Paradoxically, however, while I knew Mark through his e-mails and his writing, I never met him in person. I could only imagine what he was like and the picture of him in the post written by my RedState colleague, Erick Erickson, is precisely how I pictured Mark; with a twinkle in his eye and with ineffable joy in his heart and mind. Over a course of years, he introduced his personality to me and to my RedState colleagues. We soon learned of his likes and dislikes. His likes included Reagan, politics, the Steelers, and J.S. Bach and his dislikes included, among other things, blowhardism on the Sunday Talk Shows.

An idea was born. Given Mark's ability to offer trenchant and cogent political analysis, why not have him do a weekly round-up of the Sunday talk shows? He agreed and the feature at RedState became his trademark. Within short order, Mark created for himself quite the impressive fan base.

The rest of us might have been envious. Mark achieved what so many writers dream of achieving; a niche all his own. But whatever envy we felt was subsumed by the love all of us at RedState felt for my friend. For our friend.

He had so many great and noble qualities. One might have resented him if one were not charmed and captivated by his inherent goodness and roguish sense of humor. I don't mean it as a criticism or an insult to write that he was a master of the written sucker punch. He would have his readers rolling along, caught up in some emotion or other, or perhaps just a straight telling or retelling of the facts of a particular story or issue, and suddenly he would surprise them with deadpan humor inserted at just the proper place, or a measured dose of sarcasm deployed against the deserving, or perhaps a whimsical observation that would leave the rest of us chuckling and wondering at Mark's unique--and uniquely powerful--mind and its ability to deliver observations we might not have considered. Observations we might have overlooked. Observations that when introduced to us by Mark, enriched us.

We loved my friend. Our friend. He was our sage. Our kindly counsel. He was decent and honest with us always.

His encouragement and well-wishes for us and for the success of RedState became a form of valued currency amongst the Contributors. And he was never stingy about sharing encouragement with us. Those who are generous with their praise run the risk of having that praise cheapened but somehow, despite Mark's constant and consistent efforts to support us and to support the mission of RedState, his praise maintained its value no matter how much it was dished out. How does one achieve that? How does one keep from cheapening that which one gives with such kindness and abundance? To subvert the laws of supply and demand in determining the value of one's own considered praise is no mean feat. Mark achieved it on a regular basis with us. We marveled at his skill and talent. We marveled at his gift of being consequential. Happily and proudly, we rejoiced in his fellowship with us and looked forward to growing old with him.

Death, in its malicious and arbitrary ways, must have resolved to seek to cut short our joy. It found a place where it could cast its shadow. It must have believed that the victory would come quick, that Mark would soon be laid low, that in triumph, Death could repair to its cold fortress, alone, contemplate its latest conquest, alone, exalt in its mastery, alone. Alone and despised by all except Death itself. With this grim and remorseless resolve, Death sought to cast its shadow over Mark Kilmer.

And Mark brought his light against the darkness.

Discovering that he had throat cancer, Mark resolved to fight it. He fought with the marvels of modern science and medicine. He fought with his Diane at his side. He fought by writing his fellow RedState Contributors with his periodic "News From the World of Medicine," which he would send in e-mail form. With an eye both tender and dispassionate, Mark would explain to all of us what he was going through, how he was coping, what the physical battle was like, what the mental struggle was like and how it shaped his loving relationship with Diane and with God. He was like a tour guide for the rest of us, taking us on a journey few of us had traveled. He seemed to realize that Death thrived on mystery so he sought to strip the mystery away from what he was going through. He would end his e-mails with a restated resolve to live a long life if God allowed it to be possible. In doing so, he taught us to value our own health, our own lives, the preciousness of our existence on this Earth. More than once, when going through a bad day, I found myself sustained by Mark's words.

It may be a cliché to write this, but Mark was deeply brave in facing his illness. He would almost never betray any anger, any fear, any sense of bitterness concerning his battle with cancer. The only times I got a glimpse of what might have been raging in his heart was when someone (I don't even remember who) wrote something in an e-mail that seemed to be dismissive of cancer's ability to wreak havoc in a life and Mark came down on that person like a ton of bricks, reminding us all in the process that however brave his example--and he was genuinely courageous--cancer and Death were nothing with which to trifle. Of course, his words carried weight with us and we heeded his entirely just requests.

The episode made me wonder. Was Mark afraid in the quiet places of his heart? Perhaps. But of course, courage is not the absence of fear. It is the overcoming of it. It would be a person made of stone who could entirely exile the sensation of fear when contemplating mortality. But one need not be made of stone in order to overcome fear. One need only be extraordinary. Mark Kilmer was extraordinary. He personified courage for me.

Things seemed to get better. Death was in retreat. Mark appeared to have beaten back his cancer and the doctors told him that he was in the clear.

And then, the cancer returned.

We were informed in an e-mail that is too recent and too painful to write much about. We were asked to pray, and we did. Alas, Mark's time came. With his loss, Death preens and asks us to acknowledge anew its power.

I won't do it. And you shouldn't either.

The laughter and the mischief, the grace and the serenity that were and are redolent in the writings that Mark will leave as just one part of a rich legacy, taught all those who came into contact with him that while Death will visit us all, how we contend with the visit will help determine how we are remembered. It will bring to light the very character of our souls. True to the absolute essence of his self, Mark Kilmer, my friend, our friend, comported himself justly, honorably, and with a full heart, even unto the end. By his example, he throws down the gauntlet to all of us and asks us to follow his example.

It shall be difficult to laugh at Death when all I want to do is weep. But for Mark's sake, I shall try to laugh. Laughter will be halting, at best, tonight. But in time, I will laugh more easily at Death and when I do, I'll thank Mark Kilmer, my friend, our friend, for his teaching and his example. I am poorer for having lost him. But I am better for having known him.

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Don't you wish you had written that?

My predictions for 2009.

A rabbi is the spiritual leader of a synagogue and for most people, a relationship with a rabbi stems from their mutual Jewish faith. But the term "rabbi" can also refer to any kind of teacher, guru or sherpa; thus, the Christian former Budget Director, David Stockman, referred to his onetime Roman Catholic mentor Daniel Patrick Moynihan, as his rabbi.

Arnold Jacob Wolf was Jewish, as am I. I am a member of the synagogue where he was the Rabbi and Rabbi Emeritus for a span of nearly three decades. Because of our mutual Jewish faith and because he was the spiritual head of my synagogue, he was my Rabbi in the Jewish sense. But even if I was not Jewish and had the chance to meet and interact with him, I would have called him a Rabbi of mine. Or my guru. Or my sherpa. Or a teacher, a mentor, a role model and a dear and wonderful friend.

I lost him last week to what appears to have been a heart attack.

A cursory Google search will find that Rabbi Wolf held political views that were different from mine. Very different. I don't know how much he knew about my views; perhaps he was somewhat unaware of the fact that I was on the other end of the philosophical spectrum from him. Then again, it is likely that he did know; Rabbi Wolf was smart as a whip and more mentally active than ten intellectually impressive and curious people put together. There were few facts--no matter how granular--that he did not know. The man made it his business to keep his finger on the pulse of his congregation and he did so in ways that never failed to impress, amaze and delight for as long as I knew him.

What I do know is that Rabbi Wolf would have reveled in our differences instead of resenting them. He loved argument and debate and he was truly excellent at presenting and defending his side. Gifted with the ability to spot the flaws in the arguments of another and to shore up his own position in an intellectually honest yet forensically powerful way, he was a mighty presence in any conversation.

But what made Rabbi Wolf an especially strong debater was not his ability to defend his views or persuade his critics to rethink and perhaps even change their minds. No, Arnold Jacob Wolf's participation in any discussion was truly impressive because he had a way of bringing out the best in others. I think he honestly cared less about defending or advancing his views than he did about inculcating in others an ability to discern, dissect and discuss ideas. He was an awesome advocate. But above all, he was an awesome teacher. He would be disappointed if someone did not sufficiently challenge him and it was a challenge and an education he sought for himself and tried to impart in others. When he got that challenge and education and when he was able to give it back, his eyes would twinkle, his face would break out into an irrepressible smile and his boisterous laugh would cause smiles to break out amongst all those within earshot of him.

On Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, I fast and abstain from drinking anything for a full twenty four hours. As one can imagine, this oftentimes causes fatigue and headaches. Under normal circumstances, the last thing I am in the mood for is a heady conversation; one has trouble ginning up any kind of enthusiasm for heady conversations when one feels lightheaded for lack of food or drink. And yet, I would go to my synagogue with a sense of joyful anticipation because on each Yom Kippur, Arnold Jacob Wolf--my Rabbi--would deliver what I would call The Annual Epic Sermon.

The Annual Epic Sermon was usually a 20-25 minute case study in erudition, a tour de force of spiritual sensitivity and intellectual firepower--with a healthy dose of well-timed, well-conceived and well-executed humor to boot. There was absolute silence during The Annual Epic Sermon unless Rabbi Wolf meant for the audience to laugh. Otherwise, voices were stilled and ears worked to catch every word of his speech.

He would praise his congregation during The Annual Epic Sermon. He would chastise his congregation during The Annual Epic Sermon. He would goad, cajole, inspire, warn, surprise, stun, delight and educate his congregation during The Annual Epic Sermon. He packed the gamut--or close to the gamut--of human emotions into his speech while delivering it in an urgent but dignified tone. He poured his heart out to us every year.

And he did it because he loved us. He loved his congregation.

In the Hyde Park neighborhood of Chicago, where my synagogue is found (right across the street from the home of the President-elect of the United States, whose candidacy Rabbi Wolf strongly supported), there are found a whole host of different personalities with different backgrounds, different education and income levels and even within the same political camps, different views on what means are best to achieve certain ends. My congregation is overwhelmingly of one particular political mind but that doesn't stop individual members from being disputatious with one another on political and social issues of the day. Being in Hyde Park means either wading deliberately into an argument or stumbling into one and your average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill rabbi would blanch in terror at the prospect of herding a congregation full of iconoclasts--especially when so many of those iconoclasts are intellectual and professional high achievers.

Rabbi Wolf never shied away from challenging and being challenged by this mini-university found in my congregation. Too often, the clash of ideas brings with it a clash of personalities that leads to bitterness and hard feelings. But my Rabbi was able to transcend and avoid such clashes--not because he held anything back and not because any of the congregation members did. Rather, he was able to do it because he showed--indisputably, undoubtedly and without reservation--that all of his work for, with and on behalf of the congregation stemmed from his deep and abiding love for it and for all of its members. He held us to high standards, he was disappointed with us when we fell short (as one of his eulogizers reminded us) but he always gave us another chance. When we made the most of that chance--by either challenging him in an honorable way or by showing him that we listened to him and cared about his point of view--he felt that his love affair with our congregation was justified. Rabbi Wolf's spiritual leadership was an affair of the heart and everyone in my congregation returned his affections in full.

He gave his blessing to me and to members of my family for bar and bat mitzvahs and for a wedding that was graced with his kind and generous decision to officiate. He was always ready with a kind, a funny and an interesting word that made meetings with him a pleasure and a delight. He was simultaneously one of the smartest, wittiest, most knowledgeable, most passionate, most graceful, kindest and warmest people I have ever had the privilege to meet. And he was stubborn, tough, unyielding, infuriating, argumentative and at times, even maddening--but for all of the right reasons.

I shall miss him more than I can express. The loss hasn't even begun to register. But even now, the loss is devastating.

Zicharon tzadik l'veracha. "The memory of the righteous is a blessing." Words that testify more fully and completely to the life and work of Arnold Jacob Wolf than anything my poor efforts could possibly express.

My onetime--and still occasional--haunt gets coverage. I definitely recommend 57th Street Books, but I would also point people to the Seminary Co-op Bookstore on University Avenue--both are really great places to browse for books so you cannot go wrong but the latter has more of a selection and its location in the basement the Chicago Theological Seminary means that you can walk through the glorious CTS building before or after shopping at the bookstore. The Medici is simply great and irresistible; I highly recommend their pan spinach pizza and it is one of the few places around where one can procure RC Cola--a huge benefit in my book.

In general, visitors should make it a point to walk around as much of the University of Chicago campus as possible; the gothic architecture is really stunning when set against the scenery. Also, if one is in the mood for landmarks, one ought to try to visit KAM Isaiah Israel, which is my synagogue. Warning: It is also right across the street from the President-elect's house so don't be surprised if (a) you find it difficult to find parking around there, (b) you find it difficult to even travel down Hyde Park Boulevard and (c) you are just plain turned away (though if the President-elect is not there, you will find it easier to get around).

A perfect match.

To wit.

Those who know Patterico are not surprised. Once he sets his mind to a matter, it's all over but the shouting.

When considering hosting companies for your blog, be sure to read this. It will tell you which hosting company you absolutely must avoid at all costs.

I kind of feel sorry for 1&1. Once Patterico sinks his teeth into something, he doesn't let go and I have a feeling that he is not going to let go regarding this particular issue. I won't be surprised to see 1&1 lose potential customers as a result of the debacle they perpetrated and if they do, the loss will be richly deserved.

I will be traveling later this evening and out of town for the weekend. Blogging will resume Monday.

There are no words.

And therefore, there shall be no blogging. Instead, as usual, I adopt the words written here.

No. But it is Rosh Hashanah, and I decided to take a break. I might tomorrow as well, since it is the second day.

L'shana tova tikatevu to all applicable parties.

I am something of a coffee snob, I suppose, but I am deeply proud to state that I have never, ever, ever driven any barista to the kind of insensate rage that Ben Domenech had every right to feel in a previous iteration. To the extent that I am a snob, it is because I generally take my coffee only at certain establishments and that I try to distinguish and discriminate amongst the best individual franchises that particular establishment has. And yes, my name is Pejman and I am a Starbucks addict. But I am quite easygoing when it comes to my venti cappuccinos and while I will tell a barista how I like my coffee if they ask, I do not even presume to tell them how to pull the shots, what temperature the milk ought to be and what specific prayers ought to be offered to the caffeine gods prior to imbibing a cup of joe.

Incidentally, would it be evil for me to want to see what would happen if people like Ben's Nightmare Customer From Hell were allowed to prepare their own coffee to their own specifications . . . and then drink it? If some overwrought coffee snob actually did get the chance to heat her milk to the temperature of molten lava and then imbibed the liquid consequences of her decision . . . well, I imagine that baristas would find the aftermath most amusing.

RedState Brother Moe Lane sends this via e-mail. For those of you who doubt the humor and the underlying truth behind this comic, read this.

Don't doubt it anymore, now do you?

George Washington's boyhood home has been found.

I have, at the very least, a mild case of NADD. While I was reading this blog post of self-discovery, I had Bach's Brandenburg Concertos going in iTunes (I was listening to the Coffee Cantata earlier in the afternoon), I had two Gmail windows up, was rather insistently engaged in writing e-mails concerning the need for the Right to refurbish and augment its presence in the Blogosphere in one of those windows and I was occasionally checking my Facebook Chess and Scrabulous accounts throughout the afternoon to see if anyone had made a move.

I'd like to think that all of this is good. Really, I would. Of course, I shut off everything or just move the heck away from the computer if I want to read a book and I will keep the BlackBerry away during that time lest it distracts me. Oh, and I guess I should add that this rings a few bells as well. Not all of them, but quite a few indeed.