The last day of the decade - not

Today is the last day of the decade: December 31, 2019. But it's not. the twenty-teens don't end until the end of 2020.

Count things out yourself on your fingers. The tenth year ends a decant: there is no number zero. It's like when we turned over the millennium. The year 2000 ended the 1900s rather than beginning the 2000s. The year 2001 actually began the new millennium.

So sorry folks, the new roaring twenties don't actually start tomorrow. It's like when I turn 60 in April 2020 I will still in fact be in my fifties. Hey, you grab onto whatever branch you can.

Crispy crisps posing as chips

Okay, back to the sublimely ridiculous Marty who tells tall tales or opines about the unimportant.

Among my Christmas gifts was a can of Pringles, intended to be shared with my granddogs as they and I love salty snacks. For the record, I dutifully shared them with the pups, doling them out over a few days in fact to spread the joy. I don't believe the dogs cared for such distribution. But they still gratefully took them when offered.

Pringles used to be called Pringles newfangled potato chips until the government, in its desire to protect us from all enemies foreign, domestic, and within the snack food industry, made them call their product potato crisps (as they were not slices of deep fried potato but potatoes which were pulverized into a mash then deep fried into a chip quality) lest the America consumer fail to see the importance of government protection. After all, who wants to be victimized by potato crisps posing as chips?

Anyway, the size of the can was 4.41 ounces. The can also proudly proclaimed that it was a limited time size. And that affects the quality and flavor...how? That bothers me almost as much as my over protective government ordering the folks at Pringles to relabel their snack food in a protective move which I quite frankly did not need. Nor see the point of. I mean, chips, crisps; is THAT what I pay my taxes for?

But at least Pringles offered the new can size on their own. I think.

That wasn't a catch?

All right, it's been awhile since I've allowed myself an anti-football rant. So brace yourself, I have one today.

While I did not watch any games live yesterday (I rarely do anymore, yet that goes for most any sport beyond baseball and golf) I could not help but hear of the non-fumble which went against Ohio State on review during the Fiesta Bowl. So I pulled it up on the computer and, you know what?

That was a catch. How can you play a game, how can you have a sport, how can you claim any integrity for your championships, when you don't know yourself the basic objects of your game?

The guy caught the ball. He had it stripped and the Buckeyes should have had a touchdown. Period. End of report. And please spare me about how it doesn't really matter because OSU missed other opportunities.  A glaring, I don't know that you can call it a mistake when something's so egregious, injustice such as that simply begs all other questions. Yes, they missed other chances. But those do not matter when an appalling lack of judgment and fair play is at hand. Yet even with instant replay and official reviews, these idiocies seem to happen in football far more often than other sports. This isn't the first time this year alone in the NFL or NCAA where stupidity reigned.

And if you think it's all okay because it was OSU who had it stuck to them, you're part of the problem with American football and the rabid, unchecked, relentless egotism the game allows, even encourages. Football needs to take an honest look at itself.

Rant over. Have a pleasant Sunday waiting for the NFL to make its stupid calls.

Rant really over now.

The rather strange interrogation

A few years ago I met an old curling friend for golf. After a short discussion we decided to play in Canada. I crossed over the border one Sunday, we played 18 holes, went to a pub and grub for a couple pints and some, well, grub, decided to hit the links again soon, and parted ways.
It was next, in my return to these United States, that the story became in my mind kinda weird.
I stopped at the guard booth and dutifully handed the attendant my enhanced license. "Citizenship?" he asked brusquely.
You just swiped my license, so you know the answer to that, I thought brusquely myself. But I obediently answered, "U.S."
"Purpose of your trip?"
"I was golfing with a Canadian curling friend."
The man turned to look at me and asked, I thought rather harshly, "What have you got against golf in the United States?"
"N, nothing," I heard myself stammer. "We just decided to golf in Canada."
He began staring me down, and I have to admit I was starting to feel intimidated, "Why would you decide that?"
"Well, no big reason. It seemed cheaper for me cross the border and pay in Canadian dollars, that's all."
"So what's your problem with US dollars?" continued the interrogation.
I wasn't sure how to answer that, as I truly love US dollars as much as any red blooded American. I responded meekly, "It just seemed cheaper."
The guard harrumphed, and turned to look at his monitor. "And how did you meet this 'curling friend'?" I swear you could see the quote marks hanging in the air.
I really wasn't sure how to answer that; from his tone it didn't appear as though there was a right answer. "Uh, well, curling?" It sounded even to me like I responded with the lilt of a question. That's not gonna help here, I thought with no small fear.
He asked, "Do you have your clubs with you?"
"Yes. In the back of my van." I stupidly indicated where the back of my van was with a twist of my head.
"What kind are they?" he demanded.
I answered incredulously, "Clevelands." Where's he going with this?
The guard turned again to me, handed me back my license, smiled broadly and said in the happiest tone, "Good choice. Have a nice day!"
I don't know about you, but it struck me a rather bizarre return interview.

The review

Christmas was, so far as I can tell, good. People seemed happy, visits were fun and visitors had fun, and all appears right with the world. I'm okay with that. I hope too that your Christmas was one to be okay with.

Now it's time to make the donuts again...

Christmas 2019

Ripping off a meme making its rounds of the Internet, let me say today:

If the house isn't spotless, it's still Christmas.

If the meal isn't perfect, it's still Christmas.

If the gifts aren't ideal, it's still Christmas.

But if there's no Christ, it isn't Christmas.

Take a breath and remember that it is most emphatically not about the whistles and bows. It's about Christ.

Merry Christmas everyone.

One Christmas

It was, I think, Christmas 1972. I'm not really sure anymore as even I was still young then, but I do know that it was the only Christmas which me Grandpa and Grandma Hutchins from North Carolina spent in Detroit.
The living room was dark except for the lights of the Christmas tree. I was sitting alone on the couch when Grandpa had come into the room and sat opposite of me. And that was it. We sat there, never exchanging a word, for what in my mind seemed hours.
I'll never forget it. It felt to me then and now like the best time we ever had together. Oh, we got along great (it was a sorry man who could not get along with Clarence Malachi Hutchins) and had many good discussions and good visits over the years. Yet that night is my favorite time with him, my favorite memory.
How a house with 11 people could have stayed so still, so quiet while he and I sat there I don't know. I'm not sure we even looked at each other. We looked at the tree with the softly glowing lights. It is etched in our history.

Saturday rumbling

When 6-6 teams can make college football bowl games, there are too many bowl games.

The House impeached because it's imperative to remove President Trump as soon as possible, then might not advance the charge to the Senate? If anyone cannot now see this as purely political, you are not an impartial observer.

Other than the heavy snowfall in November (which is long gone around here anyway) this winter hasn't really been bad so far in the D.

And Christmas week is expected to be unusually warm. I don't really trust weather prognosticators I do hope they're right on that.

I went, I saw, I curled. And I'm still sore, even though I didn't do much. And this from Wednesday.

That's it, I quit. Have a good Saturday.

Going by the numbers

Did you know that in 1953, Joe Cosgriff Welding Machine rentals bought more new Hobart welders than anyone else in the country except Ford and Chrysler? Well, now you do. I'm not sure how many units that was, but it must have been a lot.

At its height I know me Grandpa had over 200 welders. In the 1970s, I remember them being numbered up to 210, the Shop number painted on the top with the prefix JC. That number, of course, does not include the total number of machines he ever owned. Things go bad; things get scrapped out or, horrors, stolen.

I'll tell what impressed me most, though: me Pops had every serial number memorized. If I asked him the 'Joe Cosgriff' number, say, JC-167, he'd rattle off the machine's factory assigned serial number. Right now kapow. I was awed by that when I was 10. I'm still awed by it. I mean, we're not talking simple little four or five digits with maybe a letter. We're talking number and letter combinations like 12CW5497 or 5DW68873. I remember the 5DW ones were 400 amp welders, so there was a code to it which could help memorization. But still, over 200 (likely closer to 300 counting machines out of use over time) committed to memory? Wow.

Now they're all gone. The last one we rented, fittingly enough, was the month Joe died, August 1991. The last ones we had we sold to a guy who shipped them to Nigeria. Yes, that sounds like a joke. But it's what the fella told the old man, and he paid cash. He could do whatever he wanted with them after that.

There. Now you're all set for when 'Cosgriff welders' is the Jeopardy category.

Save dish washing time

"I don't wash dishes. I wash dish," me Uncle John used to say. You see, he had a habit of eating his food right out of the can. It saved time and effort, and he only needed either a spoon or a fork. And let's face it, an awful lot of our food can be eaten that way.

Tuna, Vienna sausages, mechanically separated chicken, most vegetables; even things such as Spam can be eaten raw (or at least unheated). But Uncle did crease the envelope a bit. He would eat soup from the can for example. I was never sure enough about that to try it. One of the more unusual things he did sell me on though was corned beef hash. I tried it myself that way, straight from the can, and it was really okay. Roast beef hash not so much, but still good.

We hit a point where we would debate what else might be good enough thus consumed. Most things are just fine eaten out of the can it turns out. About the only thing we each agreed upon heartily was beef stew. Beef stew had to be heated. It was simply too chunky and the gravy too much in globules to be enjoyed on the cheap.

So, use less water and soap my friends. Eat from the can!

I'm curling

I'm curling today at the Detroit Curling Club. It's a Tier 55 bonspiel. That means you have to be old to play in it. I qualify.

We play two games and have lunch in between. It should be fun. After all, there's never a bad time in a curling club. Trust me on that.

I love the game but I love the people more, and I suppose that's what I'm looking forward to the most: seeing old friends. That is not meant as a joke, though they are old.

Anyway, I'm off. Wish me luck. And hope that I am not too sore afterwards.

Can't be that busy

I remember me Pops would frequently ask, to no one in particular and everyone in general, "You ever notice that the guys who claim they're the busiest always have the time to tell you how busy they are?" It sure seems that way.

I had a customer at the Shop yesterday who came in (without his machine for some reason) and wanted to know how much and how long to put a chuck on his Eel. I told the man twenty five bucks and we could do it while he waits. "Cool. Let me go get my machine Cosgriff and I'll be right back. I got a lotta jobs waiting."

He left to get his machine an hour later. Several times in the interim as he was supposedly about to leave he would stop before reaching the door and ask about a cutter, or the turnaround time on rewiring his unit, or simply to tell me about how much he loves his Model C Eel. Still, I ended up fibbing to him and said I had to close at three just to expedite things. "Okay, Cosgriff. Let me go get it 'cause I'm really busy. Got a lotta jobs lined up."

I hope he was very busy, because he was really selling me on the point. Yet he did not return by three. Or by my actual closing for that matter.

My brother's wisdom

My brother had said some things which are worth hearing. Of course, he's said a lot things which aren't worth a tinker's dam either, but I'll leave that go. For now.

When someone does something so asinine as to defy even the most rudimentary logic he asks, "In what universe did he imagine that would be right?" Yet perhaps his best lament is when a customer brings an off the wall, second or even third rate drain snake into our shop and expects us to make it top of the line. "He wants us to make a Cadillac out of a Yugo," Phil will opine.

I can't think of another example just now. But you get the point: some times my brother is wise. Or a wise guy, take your pick.

Faith and Reason

I sell for a company located in Springfield, Ohio: Electric Eel Manufacturing, which is where to go for all your drain cleaning needs. They make the best products on the market, and I say that not simply because I sell them but because it's true. But this is about more than that. It is about the people who make up the company, but also, I hope, about a little bit more.

One fine day in 2015 as I drove to Springfield from Detroit, sometime around 3 AM, I was nearing a little town called North Baltimore. There is a truck stop at the exit for the town, and I often stop in for a respite, a coffee, or a snack. I was planning to do that that day but as I approached a little voice said, "Why don't you just go on?", and I thought, yeah, why not, might as well make some time. So I drove by.

Urbana, Ohio is about 30 miles from Springfield. I thought I might get a coffee, and hit my left turn signal to run into a Tim Horton's. But that same calm voice said, "You're so close. Just get to the factory." So I thought again, I might ought to, and I am quite close. I went on.

I parked at the plant, took a few things into the front offices, and went back out to drive my van to the loading dock to pick up my order. I turned the key, and was greeted by a simple little click which I recognized immediately. My starter had went out. But rather than being upset, even though I knew the repair would be costly and that my day would be seriously delayed, I right away thought that I was glad I was there and not in North Baltimore or Urbana.

In part I knew this was fortunate because the people at Eel, good folks all, would help me, and they did. We tried a jump start and a few other things which unfortunately didn't work, and then the shop foreman called their mechanic, who took me in right away. He had me fixed up and I was back at the plant by 11 O'clock, loading and getting ready to get back to Detroit much earlier than I had feared would be the case a few hours before.

I had told several friends earlier in the day about my almost stopping but not. I related this story to another fellow right before I left. He said simply, "It was the Holy Spirit." The instant he said that I agreed, "You're right. It was."

Now we might look at this in different ways. It could be objected that if it was God trying to help me, "You still needed an expensive van repair. Why would you be thankful to Him for that?" But we all know the obvious response, don't we? My situation would have been much worse in the wee hours of the morning in more isolated places. I might also add, against the objection that why didn't God just keep the breakdown from happening at all, that the world is not perfect. All things made by human hands are subject to failure, and indeed (to really go off on a tangent) that without those failures human freedom itself would be impossible as the consequences of acts would be meaningless. Perhaps I'll expound on that more at another time, but trust me. The point is rational.

Still, this doesn't prove that it was the Holy Spirit. It is a matter of faith, mine and surely several other folks at Electric Eel and among readers, that it was. And this leads to the key trouble which people not of faith have with such an insistence. They will themselves insist that such faith is irrational.

But is it rational, irrational, or in fact above and beyond reason? Being beyond reason doesn't mean that faith is wrong; it doesn't actually mean that faith is irrational either. I rather believe that faith, so long as it is not genuinely irrational, is actually quite reasonable. Saying that you believe by faith that aardvarks speak English is obviously irrational, as any absurd assertion must be. As such, we can dismiss such a belief as not an example of real faith. But the idea that an omnipotent, caring being might help us along the way is certainly not irrational. A faith in that sort of being most definitely cannot be called unreasonable.

Oh, you might argue that such a being doesn't exist. Yet we're already past that if we presume He does: if A, then B. It still fulfills any demand for rationality and is not blind faith which many of the faithful are accused of having. If you don't care to presume that such a being exists then our disagreement is with first principles, self evidence, and not any given logical progression.

I have faith that the Holy Spirit kept me going so that I could get easier help at my ultimate destination. I find the thought indeed eminently rational. You may not agree that that was the case. But I do think you're being unfair to say that my faith is therefore irrational. Even if you don't believe me, at least don't think I childishly believe in the Flying Spaghetti Monster, which is truly a straw man argument against God and faith.

If something of faith can pass (or at least not fail) the test of rationality then there is little reason to disregard it as merely a figment of the imagination. Don't dismiss it merely because it cannot be proven empirically. Faith simply is not belief without proof. It is belief beyond proof.

Grandpaw Hutchins' dogs

Me Grandpa Hutchins had a couple of pets over the years which, for whatever reason, stand out in my mind. I guess they simply impressed me somehow.

One he called Watch. Watch was the largest collie I have ever seen. He looked like Lassie on steroids. Lots of steroids. He weighed, the vet told Grandpa, 135 pounds. That's a lot of collie.

Watch was a playful animal though. That's not bad until you take his weight into account. He'd knock you down without any evil intent. He was just being man's best friend.

Grandpa had another little beagle named Tommy. I liked old Tommy; maybe that's why I gravitate towards beagles, so much as I might gravitate towards any particular breed of dog.

What I remember most about Tommy was that he lost his voice when he was about 14 (84 in people years). He would start to bay as beagles do but only the first 'wrope' would come out. Yet his mouth kept silently opening and closing for several seconds, as though he had to complete the rest of the barking anyway.

Watch and Tommy. Two pretty good old dogs.

Nativity scene askew

As I drove to Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs; it's my blog, I can shamelessly plug whatever I want) in the wee hours of the morning one day last week, I saw a Nativity scene in a yard next to a house. There's nothing surprising about that of course. It's that time of year.

It was one of those sets that was made up of plastic statues which could be lit up from the inside. And so they were, every statue. Hmm...is it right to describe a Nativity as lit up?

Anyway, the household already had the three wise men around, which arguably is being ahead of times as they didn't arrive until several days after Jesus' birth. But who am I to argue over minor details?

Anyway again, one of the wise men was laying on his side, presumably because of the wind or whatever. It faced away from the road and also blocked the view of the crib so that you could not see the Christ Child. But as the other statues were duly kneeling with their hands in the prayer position, facing the road and thus the tipped over wise man, it looked to me as though they were all praying over a recently fallen comrade. I burst into laughter at this nativity scene askew.

Am I a bad person?

Late in Adrian

Adrian is a nice small town in Lenawee County Michigan, about 90 minutes southwest of Detroit. It's the kind of place I wouldn't mind making a home: small town living close enough to the big city for big city conveniences. I was just there yesterday.

The profusion of cell phones means that cities such as Adrian are very close. Close enough that customers can easily reach you there, as one did me late yesterday afternoon. He wanted to drop off his machine for repair. "I'm sorry, but I'm in Adrian and I'll be late today. Bring it to my shop tomorrow," I explained.

"Oh. Well, could I bring it now and you check it tomorrow?"

Oh-kay. What I did not ask (although I wanted to) was, what part of  'I'm in Adrian and I'll be late bring it tomorrow" was not clear?

I'm asking for a friend.

I pay my bills

On Thursday, a customer brought back a machine which he felt I should repair under warranty. Now, I won't bore you with the details, and I am man enough to admit a mistake and do warranty work when it's legitimate. But somebody had clearly messed with the machine. My work wasn't the issue. I told him as much.

He insisted that no one had touched it, and added, "Marty, I pay my bills."

What does paying your bills have to do with it? I thought. I pointed that out to him. "Well, I mean I wouldn't do anything wrong to you man."

Whatever. Somebody messed with that machine, simple as that. Despite that you pay your bills man.

Zeke's driving test

Okay, I'll admit up front that the title is a hook. A quite misleading one at that. But this post does involve me Uncle John (sometimes called Zeke) and it is about driving tests.

Back in the day many of us Cosgriffs lived and worked near Wayne State University in downtown Detroit. Now I can't speak for how they are recently but as I hear few complaints I think they're much better. But in the seventies and eighties WSU students were notorious walkers and drivers. Notorious that is for weaving in and out of traffic in their vehicles and vaulting across the street on foot trying to make their classes. Warren Avenue between Interstate 75 and Trumbull Avenue, a course about a mile and a half long, was the major roadway where all the action took place. It could be a harrowing drive if you didn't pay attention.

Uncle John noticed this as well as the rest of us. He used to quip that the road test for new drivers ought to be making it from I-75 to Trumbull along Warren without killing two people.

You caught that, didn't you? He was willing to spot you the first fatality because in that stretch of road you were going to kill somebody. And it would not be your fault, it would not be held against you.

Personally I think old Zeke had the right idea.

End all be all

News flash: the world is going to Hell. Do what you will, think what you will, hope what you will, but no matter what we human beings think and do, the world's heading straight into the fireball. Outside of the Will of God, it's going to happen. No action inspired by mere human plans and actions can stop it.

But that doesn't mean today. In fact, it likely will not be today, nor anytime soon.

If I've learned anything after 59 years on God's green Earth, beyond the right to speak like an old guy (things was diff'rent when I was a boy I tell ya), is that we ain't perfect. Some of us is less perfect than others, all the way to acting downright evil. I mean that. Because of that (again, outside of Divine intervention, but that's not the point here) the world will destroy itself one day. It will happen. You cannot stop it. You are not and will not be in a position to affect it. Period.

I'm not saying not to work for a better world just the same. You certainly should act within your sphere to do what you can to forestall the day of reckoning. But never mind the peripherals: fake news, President Trump, North Korean nukes, Brexit, any ism you can imagine, impeachment, Fox News over CNN. You cannot affect them on a broad scale. Stop fretting.

Be nice to your neighbor. Help directly someone who needs help. Do your job well. Discuss the issues even, among friends and charitably. I personally believe giving the Almighty His due wouldn't hurt either. But stop feeding the beast.

You're not delaying the end of the world. But you just might be helping to bring it if you stoke the coals for the people actually driving the train. You might then be helping the end come before it must.

Wither Faygo?

I don't normally fall for clickbait, the ads which entice you about trivial things yet take pages and pages to navigate. But every now and then I succumb to the temptation. This morning was one such time. It involved what are purported to be the most unusual foods from each state.

I can't find it now but trust me. From North Dakota was offered lutefisk, a seemingly awful fish, uh, treat. It sounded awful, both overcooked and overly pungeant. Yet that other North in our Union, Carolina, offers livermush, which I love. I'm not sure if it's one word or two, livermush or liver mush, but I love it. Indeed I've written about it here:

https://thesublimetotheridiculous.blogspot.com/2017/07/potted-meat-and-liver-mush.html

Yet what this particular article claimed was the most unusual food from right here in Michigan, right here in the D in fact, was, I am not making this up, Faygo.

To be fair, the writers conceded that Faygo isn't actually a food (really), explaining that it's a cornucopia of flavored pops. But my question is, what's so odd about flavored pop? Isn't that everywhere?

And now you know why I avoid clickbait. It's stupid.

Don't tell if asked

Ninety five percent of the time, if not ninety eight, I'm fine. Really. I can nearly always function at work and at home, lifting and moving things as required. But the affects of ageing are still there.

Yesterday for example I spent most of the day with my hip bothering me enough that I was indeed having trouble functioning. I sat a lot, stretched out on the couch or the bed a lot. No amount of ibuprofen seemed to help. I simply had to resign myself to hip pain until it decided to alleviate itself.

Yet that's not the worst part of it. The worst part is knowing that in about nine years I'll need to have that hip replaced. I wouldn't know that if I hadn't been stupid enough to mention to my doctor about a year ago that my hip hurt.

You know how that goes. You're just in for a regular, routine checkup and he asks how you are. "Well, my hip bugs me a bit doc," you answer. So after about five minutes of stretching and manipulation he says, "I'm thinking you're about ten years from a hip replacement."

Thanks Doc. That means that every time that my hip hurts like yesterday I think things along the lines of, well, one year of that ten years is past. It's something to look forward to I suppose. But the next time I see him, at my regular scheduled exam in April 2020, and he asks 'How are you Mr. Cosgriff?' unless I am experiencing crushing chest pain or the like, I will simply answer, fine.

The perks

One of the things I learned early on in this life as a Cosgriff was: keep the coffee on. There oughta be a pot on the stove at all times.

In this age of everything instantly that isn't so much of a concern. What with Keurigs and timed drip coffeemakers and all, do we really need to keep the coffee on? It's always right at our fingertips, eh?

True dat. Still, to a perculatin' coffee meister such as meself, it ain't the same. There needs to be a pot on the stove with coffee ready right now. A thirty second wait for your Keurig simply won't do. I must be able to pour a cup right now, this instant. That's how it's supposed to work.

I remember well taking my turn making a pot of coffee at me Grandpa Joe's by the time I was about 12. There were two pots on his stove and when the first one was empty there had to be a second got going right now. It's how things were supposed to be. It's what made the world right.

To this day, or more properly since the day I began keeping only one pot of coffee at a time on my stove, part of me has felt as though I were violating a commandment. Only one? What about the cup needed ten cups from now?

I'm learning to live with it though. But it does go against my grain.