Rod Dreher's most recent
blog entry is directed primarily at the Contra Crunchies, and he admits
that it's all a clever ruse."Oh, I'm just trying to bait them, for fun, just to see if they can stand not to comment. You watch: they won't be able to resist -- and it'll be even less funny than my little tossed-off thing."
Well, he's right that we can't resist a response, and he's right that any response we make would pale to his joke. I'm writing to admit defeat in our long-standing battle of wits.
His writing is, in a word, brilliant.
His approach is an ironic, post-modern reversal of expectations, and I'm frankly surprised I have the gray matter to comprehend it, but I do just barely
He demonstrates his civility by pretending
to call us names, he demonstrates his wit and originality by using old
pejoratives and even other people's insults
, and he shows that he really couldn't be bothered about us by feigning that he thinks of us even when contemplating the finer things of life.
But all that's nothing compared to the piece de resistance, the coup de grace, and the eau de toilette: Beaujolais nouveau
No true crunchy conservative would be caught dead drinking that stuff. Those faithful friends of all things local wouldn't drink any French wine on principle, but certainly not this particular variation. They're skeptics of big government, so they wouldn't wait like kids on Christmas Eve for French officials to tell them it's okay to purchase their drink of choice. They abhor the fast-paced life of modernity, so they wouldn't want to encourage the practice of having this wine shipped across the globe as quickly as possible.
And they absolutely hate
commercialism, but apparently, "[t]he phrase, 'Le Beaujolais Nouveau est arrivé!'
is proclaimed and celebrated on banners, advertisements, etc. in order to lure in the fan." The damn thing has a slogan, so no true traditionalist, agrarian crunchy conservative would find himself caught up in the rank marketing.
But by pretending
he's such an obvious hypocrite, pretending to proclaim the simple life of the common farmer on one hand while indulging the consumerism of an elite cosmopolitan on the other, he proves that he's the genuine article -- and he gives us his critics no possible avenue for a retort.
Reading that post would initially
give a person the idea that Rod's true patron saint of crunchy conservatism isn't Wendell Berry or Rusell Kirk: it's Frasier Crane.
But because we know better, because we know that Rod would never really be such an epicure, we his critics must stand in awe of his rhetorical wit and his intimidating intellect.
We yield, Rod. ¡No más! ¡No más!