2022 began in earnest on January 1st. January led to February, on whose heels came March.
April showers did, as I recall, bring May flowers. June appeared to end the first half of the year.
July came and led to August, which stood aside gracefully for September.
October brought with it Autumn, November continued the pace, and December brought 2022 all together.
There you have it: the year in review. I expect much the same on 2023.
It was an unusual sight. As I came home from Midnight Mass in the wee hours of Christmas morning, the snow falling lightly to the ground, the moon shadowing the landscape, something appeared which I never expected to see even on such a glorious day of the year.
It made its way across Forest Avenue as I approached. I could tell by how it moved that it was uncommon for this day and age. Yet I had to follow it as it trod gently down an alley.
As I crept the new old van forward, the object stopped to stare at me. I had found the legendary Coyote of Christmas, right in Detroit. It looked at me curiously before darting into the trees which have taken over a vacant lot.
You didn't expect a miracle, did you?
A moth goes into a podiatrist's office. He begins pouring out his soul to the doctor, "Doc, I absolutely hate my job. I go in day after day and work at the same dull task over and over and I just can't stand it. It's pure drudgery."
"I wake up in the middle of the night and I have my arms around this woman who I don't love anymore. I don't know how I ever loved her. It's as though we have nothing in common, no understanding of one another, no connection at all. I wonder how I got myself into such a relationship."
"Mornings I find myself looking at my children at the breakfast table and I simply hate them. I despise them. My daughter is all goth and will hardly speak to me, and my son is a total coward who has no backbone whatsoever. I can't respect these kids, and they don't respect me."
"Some days I sit in my garage and pull the revolver I have hidden out of my tool cabinet and try to find the will to use it on myself to feel the sweet release of death. I hate my life that much."
The doctor said, "Sir, I really have tremendous empathy for you. You definitely have a lot of issues to work out. But I can't help you. You need a psychiatrist and I'm a podiatrist. Why did you come in here?"
"Well," answered the moth, "Your light was on."
We are, in case you didn't notice, almost exactly in between Christmas and New Year's Day. They fall on Sundays this year. Well, Christmas falls on Sunday this year while New Year's falls on Sunday next year. But you knew what I meant.
Which day of the week is it best for these holidays to occur? It is nice having a long week in between the two, but I rather believe that Thursday is the best day. You effectively get consecutive four day weekends when that happens, which is nice. Technically you get that when they fall on Tuesdays too. But as Wednesday work days follow those Tuesdays, it isn't as fun.
Me Uncle John who I call Zeke liked it best when Christmas and New Year's were on Wednesdays, right smack in the middle of the week. It breaks up the weeks nicely, in his mind, and you do get that convenient weekend in between for more a relaxed holiday season.
Fridays and Mondays aren't terrible. With Fridays you do get two three day weekends in a row, while Monday has the Tuesday problem of workdays immediately following.
What do you think is the best day for Christmas and New Year? And why am I asking? Because yes, Ron, this is a slow news day.
While logging into my AOL account yesterday I saw an article which proudly offered an easier way for seniors to trim their toenails. I clicked on the link, thinking, oh, I should check that out. It might be useful.
And this is what my life has become.
Heavy sigh.
In many parts of the English speaking world, today is Boxing Day. I can dig it. I'll start with Rocky Balboa, maybe shuffle back to the original Rocky, and throw in Raging Bull at some point. We can just keep the snacks coming all day, finish the leftovers, and maybe end the movie binge with that newer film about Apollo Creed. A boxing movie marathon. Sweet.
Wait, what? That's not what boxing day is about?
Thanks, folks. You could have included me in the memo.
Born to raise the sons of earth!
Born to give them second birth!
Hark! The herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!"
Merry Christmas everybody.
I just went through an excruciatingly aggravating episode with my AOL account. I kept getting told that my password was incorrect, even though I was sure I had been typing it in quite correctly. I was at the point of hitting every key quite precisely to be absolutely certain that AOL and my computer understood my intent.
In my mind I was doing everything right, of course. But somehow AOL wasn't accepting that very obvious fact, and I was getting very angry.
Then I noticed that some numbskull who shall remain nameless (because it wouldn't be fair even to call him Cloyce in this instance) had hit the CAPS LOCK key. So of course AOL wasn't understanding my password. I was essentially hammering it in precisely the opposite of what it literally was. Make sense?
So I was mad at AOL, the Internet, and computers in general all the while the victim of my own mistake. I'm glad I didn't raise too much of a ruckus.
I admit it: sometimes I feel like being a complete snot just to be a snot.
Domino's Pizza has lately been running a commercial about the 300,000 or so electric cars they're going to be using for pizza delivery because 'it's better for the planet'. I get it. They're trying to appeal to potential consumers with a smarmy and vaguely self righteous sales pitch. It's their right.
Yet with me, every time I see the commercial - every single time - I find myself seriously considering calling in an order - a very small order like breadsticks - simply as a reason to drive my gasoline burning van to a competitor of Domino's and pick it up myself. I merely want to assert, in my own little way, that you can jump off a bridge with your virtue signaling, Big Pizza Chain. I will drive my new old van whenever and wherever I want, as I'm not actually harming the planet in any real, long term way. Earth is resilient, folks.
In some ways I think I am becoming a curmudgeon. And, as my friend Maxwell Smart says, loving it.
December has been a great months for sales, and that's good. Because I'm in sales.
Last week I sold two Model C Electric Eel drain cleaners, one on each of two consecutive days. I like that. Because I'm in sales.
Yesterday a very good customer, indeed one of my best, called from Saginaw (about two hours north of Detroit) and asked about getting 30 cables ASAP. I told him I'd bring them right away. He kindly offered to meet halfway, which I did appreciate, so we set up a meeting point. "I'm not putting you out, am I, Marty?" the man asked me over the phone.
"My friend, I sell things. Delivery is in the job description!" I assured him.
The fact is I like being on the road. I like seeing people, especially those who, at the risk of sounding trite, are friends as much as customers. Ask me to help you; it's all good. Because I'm in sales.
Don't you get sick of it? I know I do. Wars and rumors of wars, albeit nothing that serious in this case. Thanks for the hyperbole yourself, Martin.
I'm reading and hearing warnings of a terrible storm out there somewhere which may be possibly brewing and might ravage the Christmas season, at least in the environs (Detroit, Michigan, for me) which are all around the nation but particularly the mid and northwest. And we may have blizzards, and we may not. The truth? They (they famous they) don't know yet. But will that keep them from fanning the flames of doom?
Nope. Christmas travel could be dicey this year. My family are all already exchanging what are we going to do texts.
I'll tell you what we're going to do: if things aren't that bad, a wild guess he says sarcastically, we stick to the plan and everyone travels safely. If not, we abandon the plan and simply accept that Christmas won't be the same this year.
I don't know what else to do, and there's really no sense fretting it.
During my recent examinations concerning my left foot, I had the chance to use what I thought was a clever joke. A resident doctor, a foreign man (I only point that out for the sake of the quip) looking in on me asked, "How do you think you injured it originally?"
"Probably yanking it out of my mouth," I drolly replied.
He stared at me uncertainly. "I do not understand."
"Oh," I responded. "Well, when we say something stupid, we sometimes say that we put our foot in our mouth."
The doctor smiled. "I shall have to remember that."
"Yes," I chuckled. "But it might not sound good if you asked a patient, So, did you hurt your foot when put it in your mouth?"
Nodding his head with a grin the man said, "I will be careful."
"Hey Marty! Guess what?"
No, no, no. Not playing that game.
"The Lions have won five of their last six!"
Not listening...
"There's only two teams above them in the playoff race!"
I can't hear you.
"They have the easiest schedule left of the teams in the hunt for the last spot in the NFC!"
Na-na-na-na, is someone talking?
"They're playing meaningful games in December!"
It just doesn't matter.
"Oh, come on, don't be a stick in the mud! Jump up on the bandwagon with us!"
Nope. Not gonna do it. I might, only might, take my fingers out of my ears when they win a second playoff game in my lifetime. Or if they continue to play well in 2023 with the tougher schedule they'll, I suppose earn. Until then, keep your football, Lucy Van Pelt. You're not playing me for a sucker. Again.
Yesterday I curled for the first time in almost three years. Nothing meant against my curling brethren, but it's easy to quit curling. Just don't go into a curling club. The game loses its grip on you; if you ain't there, you ain't thinking about it.
So I must say in all honestly that I didn't miss it. Until I walked into the Detroit Curling Club and saw so many old friends. Until I walked out onto the ice and threw my first stone since March 2020. It was a corner guard that my sweepers overswept and drug into the rings, but no matter. I was curling again.
I threw first, then went into the house to call the game. I was well pleased to find all the old strategy still at the front of my mind. I found I could still call line. Don't worry if you have no idea what I mean by any of this curling jargon. Suffice it to say it was like riding a bike, I felt that comfortable.
Now I'm planning to curl more this season, and hang out again with so many old friends. Curling is back in my blood. I'm ready to play again. And I'm not as sore as I thought I would be today, although walking down the steps this morning was excruciating. Curling makes you use leg muscles you don't ordinarily stress. But you pay the price, right?
This morning, for the first time in nearly three years, I'll be throwing them stones. I'll be curling again. First time since March 2020 in Bowling Green, Ohio.
Ah, Bowling Green. Nice new curling club. I remember that most of us still shook hands in greeting because, damn COVID, we knew then it was overblown, and it was still early. But enough pontificating.
There is a true brotherhood among curlers. We love the game, but we generally like the camaraderie more. On the ice, we try to win. No point playing any game if you don't want to win. But off the ice, most times anyway (there are unfortunately difficult people everywhere) we're all all right with one another.
We buy each other drinks and don't keep score. After nearly forty years of curling there are guys I'm sure who are ahead of me and guys where I'm ahead of them. No matter. At the bar, you buy a drink for a friend when he approaches. Details are unimportant. I remember one old Scotsman who walked around the Leamington Curling Club freely giving shots of $210 per fifth single malt whisky to any who cared to imbibe. He never refused anyone, and the bottle never ran dry.
We play, then retreat to the lounge and visit one another like human beings should, typically talking about anything but curling. Because, like all other sports, it's just a game, and should be appreciated in its proper perspective.
If someone tries to frame you into a Catch-22, do what's right and don't worry about them. No one has the right to put you in an impossible situation. That's just being toxic.
If you're damned if you do and damned if you don't, don't. No point working towards it.
A stitch in time saves nine. Yeah, I never got that one either.
Sometimes the best thing to do is walk away. You can't let another person's bad attitude affect you.
Lincoln was right: never argue with a fool. People might not be able to tell you apart.
See what a sleepless night can lead you?
I do not take soccer seriously. If you like it, fine. I'll even admit to things I like about it. Only the referee controls the clock, for one. And you have to be in outstanding physical shape to play it. It's also a cheap, easy sport for youngsters and their parents. It even deserves the name football more than the American brand. But I can't take it seriously so long as championships, such as the World Cup currently happening, are decided by what they call penalty kicks.
Basically, they place the ball in front of the goalie and one guy kicks it towards the net. If the goalie guesses right, he stops it. If not, easy goal. This is repeated until one team, after an equal number of tries, scores more than the other.
That's absurd, sports fans. I realize that in a tournament you need a winner. But widen the net. Remove the goalie. Take players off the field every few minutes of overtime to create more room to run, make plays, and score. Get rid of the offsides penalty in extra time. Something. Do something so that the game is decided on the field and not somewhat randomly as it is now.
Until some kind of adjustment is made, I can't take events such as the World Cup seriously. It would be like the World Series decided with a home run hitting contest, or a Super Bowl with a punt, pass, and kick display. Figure out ways to win during the ebb and flow of actual play or forget it.
One old and tired criticism of Christians is that we are 'only' mercenary. We only strive to do good so that we can sort of buy our way into Heaven while avoiding the punishment of Hell.
Setting aside the point that there's nothing terribly wrong with such an idea - do we actually want to teach that it's better to do evil if you're so inclined rather than do good from less than perfect convictions? - the criticism avoids the generally accepted fact that people are encouraged to be mercenary in other ways, for much less important goals.
Aren't we mercenary in pursuing a job or career path? To seek a nice house in a nice neighborhood? When on the athletic field? In finding a soul mate? While shopping for cool new things or deciding what to have for dinner? In all these areas and countless others aren't we seeking what is good for us, however mundane? Yet in looking for eternal joy we aren't supposed to consider what is good for us, what will make us happy?
Absurd. As a practical matter I'm fine with someone not stealing my car simply because he fears jail time. It would be better if he weren't to become a thief for the sake of higher ideals: respect for others and personal discipline for a start. Yet whether out of fear or a clear understanding and acceptance of moral good, he would have acted rightly either way.
Being only mercenary can never condemn a man. Perhaps it is less than perfect, yes. But if it slips us through the Pearly Gates and keeps my car in the drive, I should think it worth the trade.
Call me crazy - I'm sure most of you have by now - but some days I do worry that I am losing my mind.
The house is very quiet when I'm home alone during the day, working at my computer and absolutely not playing video poker (why would you think that?). It becomes, as the old trepidation goes, too quiet.
While I was working on my current writing project (and not, I stress, playing poker) I heard what I thought was a noise from the pantry. Great, I think, a critter has gotten into something. Do I have mousetraps? But checking the pantry found no evidence of a tiny rodent invasion.
A few minutes later I heard it again. Further investigation discovered no suspects, no scurrying activity. That's two strikes. At strike three, I'm going to tear the place apart, find that little miscreant, and settle our score.
Of course within a few minutes I hear more squeaking and creaking noises. I rose to storm the pantry, leaving pocket Aces at the table - I mean an incredibly important email unfinished - when I realize that it's the chair at my computer desk. When I shift my weight ever so slightly as I sit, I'm causing the noises myself.
I think I need to keep the radio or TV on as I work from home.
Psychology is a science of which I have always been skeptical. I don't want to argue that it has no merit. Perhaps I simply don't understand it. Still, conjecture about what exactly is happening and why in a human mind strikes me as a sort of hubris. How can an outside individual actually know that?
Anyway, and I'm not sure if this counts as psychological, I tried an experiment to see exactly how much of a hold certain habits may have on me. I have shaved the exact same way for years; a stripe by the nose past my mouth on my left, then on the right. Next I shaved from the sideburn on my left, then on my right. Lastly I did my chin, and then directly under my nose.
I went to shave under my chin first the other day, and honestly had to make myself do it. It was as though a tug of war was going in my brain: You don't start there! One swipe alongside from by your nose on the left, down past the mouth! What are you thinking?
Then I shaved under my nose and then by the sideburns, all the while feeling like it was wrong. Just. Plain. Wrong. It almost felt sinful.
I'm back to shaving like always. You have to be careful about fights where sharp objects are involved.
The term Grandpa Joe for my paternal grandfather came about as a compromise familiar. You can read about that here: Mom and Joe. Basically, Joe wanted his grandkids to call him Joe exactly as he taught his own children to call him by his name. When he confronted me Mom about it, seeing as me older brother and I are his oldest grandchildren, she'd have none of it. Grandpas were grandpa or pawpaw or poppop or grandpappy or something like that. The compromise became Grandpa Joe.
I get me Mom's point. I do believe that elder family members should be addressed by a traditional family moniker of some sort. Grandpa, Nana, Aunt, Uncle, as the case may be. Even people we just met ought to be called by some title, Mister, Missus, Ms, Sir, Ma'am, something, until we are familiar enough with them to call them by first names (or instructed to by the person in question). It's a respect we take too lightly in today's world.
However, I kind of understand Joe's wishes too. If he's okay with Joe, even from his progeny and their offspring, I don't see anything wrong with it. It's one of the reasons I consciously call him Joe many times in my blogs. It's what he wanted. As no real evil is involved, what's to debate?
So why did he want to be Joe rather than dad or pop or what have you? I really don't know. He simply preferred it that way, I guess, for whatever psychological reason. I never really questioned it. And the older I get, the less he's Grandpa Joe to me and more just Joe. That's simply who he was.
Recently I picked up a third car. I kept one of my old cars insured as one of those 'just in case' measures. It cost $263 dollars for six months to do that.
I ended up getting rid of the third car, well, the second car, because I just got the third car, if you know what I mean, more readily that I expected, so I hopped online and cancelled the insurance on the second (which had become my third car, if you know what I mean). Online told me that a direct deposit refund of $319 would be sent to my bank.
Okay, I'll take the money. Who wouldn't? But I don't understand how I can get $46 more back than what I had I paid for the extra insurance, even after the fee being prorated. Especially after the fee being prorated, for I did have three cars on the policy for about a month. I can't help but wonder, too, if I may have found a way to make a living simply by switching cars on and off insurance. Is it worth a try?
I understand that sometimes, when working with corded power tools, you need more power cord. I also understand that there are these things called extension cords. They come in several lengths, from 15 feet to 100. You can carry them with you to use as needed. What a concept.
Still, I have drain cleaning customers who want to keep 100 and 150 feet of power cord always attached to their drain snake. I do not understand that. At all. The extra line permanently attached actually throws the unit off balance, so that it leans backward from the added weight, sometimes threating to fall over. Yet you're rarely more than 25 feet from a 110 outlet in any home, office, or business. You don't need all that permanent length. "I just want to make sure I enough cord, Cosgriff." Oh, all right, whatevs.
Even more beyond my comprehension are the guys who want the power cords on their machines wrapped as tightly as humanly possible around the pegs on the units which serve to contain the wiring. You can almost see a guy holding his foot against a machine to keep it steady while he pulls the power cord so taut that a bullet couldn't penetrate the wall it effectively makes. They do this without considering that they may actually damage the cord. Why must it be see so tight anyway? There are no style points for how a cord is wrapped around a drain machine.
But, again, whatevs. I make more more replacing power cords that way.
For the last thirty five or so years of Joe Cosgriff's life, me Pops, his son, had full power of attorney over him. What that meant was that Dad could make any and all decisions about my grandfather's person, property, or business arbitrarily and unilaterally, without Joe's permission or even knowledge. Me Pops could have sold his house, his cars, drained Grandpa Joe's bank account, anything.
That's all stuff Dad would never have done, of course. But Grandpa wanted Pops to be able to make business decisions for him whenever Joe was on the road, which was often. He figured that with no easy ways of communication back then, sixty or seventy years ago, he'd set things up so that me Pops could immediately do whatever was necessary to run the family welding rental business. Joe figured that giving his son full power of attorney was the easiest way to do that: decisions could be made by Dad on the spot.
The lawyer setting it all up was aghast. He vehemently advised Joe not to do it. "It's dangerous to give someone that kind of power over your person and property, Mr. Cosgriff!'" the man argued.
"Hell, if I can't trust him now, when can I trust him?" Grandpa Joe shot back.
Joe and the old man had a good relationship, I tell you what. A good relationship.
There is a fellow in the neighborhood, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who really seems to want to be the inspiration for all Woodbridge. Cloyce seems particularly concerned with criminal activity, although he chimes in on the Woodbridge Facebook page on any and all problems (real or imagined) in the area. What can be done? Can we write a letter to someone? What are the details? Have you called the police? How about updates? You should write out a short report of your own so as not to forget details, and share it on the community page. And, perhaps most tellingly, why haven't I heard?
He reminds me of the naive but eager teenager is the old movies: "We can make things work if we all pull together!" Yet Cloyce comes across more as the guy at the edge of the crowd, leaping and pleading with everyone to let him in. You know, the water boy quarterback wannabe generally ignored by the rest of the football team.
I suppose his heart's in the right place. And, yes, we should be vigilant in watching out for the folks in our community. Yet he comes off as more annoying than helpful. It's made worse by the fact that he seems to have all the answers. As a neighborhood friend of mine remarked, "Cloyce ain't gonna be happy until he earns his Junior G-Man badge."
He'll never get it the way he's going.
I like ramen noodles. I never had a problem with that until recently, when my clumsiness caused a minor catastastroke.
As any fan of ramen knows, you boil the noodles and then add a packet of seasoning, typically chicken, beef, or shrimp, although as with so many things there are many (far too many) other flavors available. The chicken seasoning is yellow, essentially a bright yellow and heavily salted power.
Last Wednesday I went to stir in chicken seasoning from the ramen noodles I had just boiled. Opening the little foil packet, which is at best an inch and a half by two inch rectangular pouch, it slipped out of my hands and towards the floor, bouncing off my left pant leg and stove door as it fell.
You've seen the short videos of glitter bombs exploding on You Tube, perhaps? Glitter rushes everywhere and impacts everything. I felt as though there was yellow powder over the entire kitchen. Except, of course, for the shadow outline of me across the cabinets behind where I stood. That yellow powder went everywhere.
I had never imagined so much color coming from something so small.
Well, see here: my book Michael's Story , the second book of the Infinity series, is now available as an ebook for just $2.99.
Thanks to my son Charlie and daughter in law Tarina for their help in getting it up and running. I hope to have book three of the series, with the working title The Interim Generation, available soon. Book Four is also manuscript ready, but I haven't come up with a title for it yet. Book Four just doesn't seem imaginative enough.
If I may say, your holiday excess shopping would be incomplete without the purchase of Michael's Story in paperback or ebook form. And don't forget A Subtle Armageddon , the first Infinity series book (available in paperback and Kindle) or David Gideon , a stand alone novel.
Thank you.
It's supposed to be true. But if not, truth should never get in the way of a good story, right?
Years ago, when I believe Gump Worsley was the goaltender of the Minnesota North Stars, a Minneapolis bar ran a contest where first prize was dinner for two with Worsley. A local guy won, and he took his teenage son with him for the supper.
The day after, a sportswriter claimed he had had a religious experience. He said that he walked into a restaurant the evening before and saw the Father, the Son, and the Goalie Host.
Not bad. Some people do treat hockey like a religion too.
Last week as I dressed in the morning preparing to go for my colonoscopy, I remembered the order of moms everywhere to their kids before they'd leave the house: put on clean underwear! Especially as I was having a medical procedure, I dutifully found and put on absolutely clean underwear. Freshly laundered in fact.
Half way to the hospital it occurred to me: no one, not the doctors, not the nurses, not the techs or anyone, was going to see my underwear that day. They could not have cared less. I would be placed behind a curtain to remove my clothes and don a hospital gown. Nothing I was wearing mattered. Not one bit.
I still get points for doing what Mama wanted though, don't I?
Whereas it is the duty of all nations to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God, to obey His will, to be grateful for His benefits, and humbly to implore His protection and favor; and Whereas both Houses of Congress have, by their joint committee, requested me to "recommend to the people of the United States a day of public thanksgiving and prayer, to be observed by acknowledging with grateful hearts the many and signal favors of Almighty God, especially by affording them an opportunity peaceably to establish a form of government for their safety and happiness:"
Now, therefore, I do recommend and assign Thursday, the 26th day of November next, to be devoted by the people of these States to the service of that great and glorious Being who is the beneficent author of all the good that was, that is, or that will be; that we may then all unite in rendering unto Him our sincere and humble thanks for His kind care and protection of the people of this country previous to their becoming a nation; for the signal and manifold mercies and the favorable interpositions of His providence in the course and conclusion of the late war; for the great degree of tranquility, union, and plenty which we have since enjoyed; for the peaceable and rational manner in which we have been enable to establish constitutions of government for our safety and happiness, and particularly the national one now lately instituted for the civil and religious liberty with which we are blessed, and the means we have of acquiring and diffusing useful knowledge; and, in general, for all the great and various favors which He has been pleased to confer upon us.
And also that we may then unite in most humbly offering our prayers and supplications to the great Lord and Ruler of Nations and beseech Him to pardon our national and other transgressions; to enable us all, whether in public or private stations, to perform our several and relative duties properly and punctually; to render our National Government a blessing to all the people by constantly being a Government of wise, just, and constitutional laws, discreetly and faithfully executed and obeyed; to protect and guide all sovereigns and nations (especially such as have shown kindness to us), and to bless them with good governments, peace, and concord; to promote the knowledge and practice of true religion and virtue, and the increase of science among them and us; and, generally to grant unto all mankind such a degree of temporal prosperity as He alone knows to be best.
George Washington's Thanksgiving Proclamation, 1789
Anyone who claims that we weren't founded on Christian principles, read these words well and carefully. And have a wonderful and happy Thanksgiving in that light.
There's this plumber who regularly comes into the old barn, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who is a nice guy who generally doesn't rush us. Generally.
He brought in a machine last Wednesday for a relatively major repair. I told him to allow about a week. "That's fine, Cosgriff, no rush at all," he said as he left the Shop. "After Thanksgiving is fine even, I ain't going to rush you."
Cloyce came in last Thursday around One O'clock. "I was just passing by, Cosgriff, so I thought I'd stop in. I ain't going to rush you."
He called Friday morning. "How's it look? I ain't rushing you, only touching base." I advised him that it would be Tuesday.
Monday morning he stopped by. "Just in the neighborhood, Cosgriff. I ain't rushing ya."
I reminded him about Tuesday and he was on his way. As soon as the door hit Cloyce on the way out me brother Phil groused, "I'd hate to see what it's like for him to rush us."
He picked up his machine yesterday, arriving at the Shop within a half hour of my call (and paying cash), so there's that. Still, yes, I do wonder what his idea of rushing us would be.
So. Those in favor of the alphabet soup of rights, the LBGTQ groups and what not, are upset at the Muslim nation of Qatar for hosting the FIFA World Cup while not supporting the LBGTQ cause. Qatar for example won't allow rainbow flags. Indeed, homosexual activity is illegal there.
I see two ways around this.
The first is for the alphabet soup folks to become accepting and tolerant of the diversity of viewpoint which that Muslim nation offers. They can make their tent big enough to include Islam even if that world is diametrically opposed to their lifestyles. If, that is, their core philosophy is really all about diversity et cetera.
Or, second, the LBGTQ supporters can admit that it's not about tolerance and diversity and inclusion at all but about basic right and wrong. While I would still disagree with their conclusions, I would have greater respect for them.
The thing is, they won't do either. They can't.
They can't do the first because it would expose their inherent hypocrisy: they don't actually believe in acceptance and tolerance and diversity of others, but only of them. And they can't do the second because making the discussion about right and wrong, moral and immoral, quickly becomes problematic. It would necessarily lead to questions they don't wish to entertain: namely, that they would have to examine their own premises and consider that they could be wrong about themselves.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave.
Have you ever noticed that when checking your voicemail on your cell phone, the disembodied voice asks for your password? But then you punch in numbers, not words.
Either the joke's on them or us. Or both, because numbers aren't words, are they? Or am I thinking too much?
Nah, that's never happened.
Before I begin, I want to say that I deeply appreciate those in the medical profession. They do work I can't do, and indeed wouldn't do, for all kinds of reasons. But I can't help but wonder what inspired the doctors and nurses and techs to enter certain fields.
Take the colonoscopy team I was blessed to have last week. They did great all the way around: professional, courteous, good at what they do. The procedure took barely a half hour, and maybe not that. I simply wonder what caused them to want to do it.
I don't remember career day at high school covering it, nor the similar career days we attended when our kids were in school. There were many options out there, but I apparently missed the poster which asked, "Do you have what it takes to make it in the world of colonoscopy?"
I'm glad those folks made that choice. I thank them very much. I just don't get it.
I've been complaining about pain in my left ankle for several months now. Sure, I've complained about other things. But the ankle is nearest and dearest to me.
Yesterday I went to my orthopedist for the results of my CAT scan from this past Wednesday. There is what amounts to a divot or pothole towards the top side of my talus bone. It has filled with heavy liquid, forming a cyst. When I irritate the cyst - pow - ankle pain. Bad ankle pain sometimes.
For the time being we're going to employ pain management strategies; the Doc says surgically removing the cyst and filling in the pothole/divot should only come when and if the injury begins to interfere with everyday life. It may require an ankle replacement (I didn't know that was a thing) but that's a long way off if needed at all. He did give me a light brace to wear between the ankle and my shoe when the pain is bad enough to warrant it.
So the news isn't terrible. I can make do with that treatment plan, at least for the foreseeable future.
I asked him if the injury was always there but undiscovered until lately, or if I had done something to cause it. He explained that most such injuries occur due to a fairly constant, repetitive motion over a long period of time, "Yet I can't imagine what that could have been," he finished.
I could. I curl.
Without going into a lot of detail, as a right handed curler I put a lot of pressure on my left foot when delivering a curling stone, and I played for around 35 years. When telling the doctor that he replied, "That might well have caused it, yes, although we can't really know for sure."
Well, I'm running with it anyway. My bum ankle is the result of an old curling injury. Prove me wrong.
Three days, three medical appointments. Do I know how to live or what?
Yesterday I was in for a CAT scan of my troublesome left ankle. Today, my first colonoscopy. Oh joy, oh rapture. Thankfully it's simply for preventative purposes, another of those 'at your age' things to do. "At your age, Mr. Cosgriff, you really ought to have a colonoscopy," my doctor told me seriously this past September. I suppose he's got my best interests in mind. And I do get to moon people without repercussions.
So I honestly don't expect bad news from that. I don't expect particularly bad news about my ankle either for that matter, except that I may need minor surgery. The ankle worries me more only because when it hurts, it hurts. I'm talking about 8 on a scale of 10. It's woken me up at night. But the damn pain comes and goes out of nowhere, sometimes lasting days, other times not even 10 minutes. Even that doesn't appear to be life threatening in and of itself. It's when it comes out of nowhere, say, when I'm going down steps, that worries me. Falling down a flight of stairs can be life threatening.
I don't want to die that way. I mean, I want to get to Heaven. I pray every day that I do, but eventually. And there are enough dicey questions already that St. Peter, I'm sure, will be asking me. I don't want "Why are you here early?" to be among them.
Which leads to appointment Roman Numeral III. Friday I see the orthopedist to find out the results on my ankle. I wish I hadn't put my foot in my mouth so often over the years...
I do not take soccer seriously. If you like it, fine. I'll even admit to things I like about it. Only the referee controls the clock, for one. And you have to be in outstanding physical shape to play it. It's also a cheap, easy sport for youngsters and their parents. It even deserves the name football more than the American brand. But I can't take it seriously so long as championships, such as the World Cup currently happening, are decided by what they call penalty kicks.
Basically, they place the ball in front of the goalie and one guy kicks it towards the net. If the goalie guesses right, he stops it. If not, easy goal. This is repeated until one team, after an equal number of tries, scores more than the other.
That's absurd, sports fans. I realize that in a tournament you need a winner. But widen the net. Remove the goalie. Take players off the field every few minutes of overtime to create more room to run, make plays, and score. Get rid of the offsides penalty in extra time. Something. Do something so that the game is decided on the field and not somewhat randomly as it is now.
Until some kind of adjustment is made, I can't take events such as the World Cup seriously. It would be like the World Series decided with a home run hitting contest, or a Super Bowl with a punt, pass, and kick display. Figure out ways to win during the ebb and flow of actual play or forget it.
All right, I've been enough of a curmudgeon this week. Let's get back to fun stories.
There was this fella who came in the Shop all the time who we called Beefy because, uh, well, it fit his stature. Like so many Michiganders, he looked forward to deer season. It begins November 15 every year, so as that's coming up soon I found myself thinking of him.
Beefy managed a plumbing company. There was one particular employee whom Beefy didn't like at all, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who was an old friend of the company owner. Beefy didn't care for the guy because he was a slacker. Yet he couldn't do anything but deal with Cloyce because of the guy's friendship with the boss. That didn't keep Beefy from complaining about Cloyce every time he was in the old barn though.
One November years ago Beefy walked into the Shop with a couple small repairs. While tending to one I eventually asked a rather obvious question, just making conversation, "So you going out hunting next week Beef?"
"Yep," he kind of drawled. "Taking Cloyce with me too."
"What? You hate Cloyce, and you're going to spend a couple weeks with him in deer camp?" I couldn't believe my ears.
"Oh yeah, I even bought Cloyce some clothes for it. Nice brown suits. I'm going to tell him his job is to run out into the woods and scare up the deer for the rest of us," Beefy explained.
I don't think I stopped laughing for a half an hour.
I'm going to risk hacking off many of my friends and relatives here, but it must be said. Donald Trump needs to ride off into the sunset, and we need to see that he does.
Let's be bluntly honest with ourselves here: we were lucky, very lucky, extraordinarily lucky, to get what we got from him. He won in 2016 only because people hated Hillary more; almost any other Democrat would have beaten him that year. Such fateful lightning isn't going to strike twice.
Nearly all his candidates performed abysmally in this past Tuesday's elections. Democrats took advantage of that chance, openly funding a Trump backed candidate in the New Hampshire Republican primary to insure their sitting Senator, Maggie Hassan, would have a cakewalk reelection. Guess what? She did. And her seat was vulnerable. Yet Republicans not beholden to him, DeSantis and Rubio in Florida, Kemp in Georgia, and Abbott in Texas scored monstrous victories. What do they all have in common? Conservatism without the vitriol or childishness of 45.
It's time to walk away from Donald Trump. By the grace of God, because that's what must have been at work in 2016, American conservatism gained more ground than it had since Ronald Reagan. It's not going to happen again with the former Chief Executive trying to pull the strings.
I say let's get behind Governor DeSantis right now and work hard for great victories in 2024. Further, if former President Trump declares he's running again, thank him for what he did, then show him the door. He's not a winner anymore.
Well, since I'm a threat to democracy anyway I might as well go all out.
If you vote for Proposition 3 in Michigan today, you are an accessory to murder, plain and simple. Direct abortion is murder, every time, no exceptions.
I urge you to vote straight Republican, even with their flaws (and they certainly have them, with wanting to destroy America and all). That's part of the problem with the right to vote, though: you will have no angels among your choices. The world isn't perfect. Why you expect it out of politicians and politics is beyond me. Voting the best you can is the best you can do.
Feel no electoral mercy towards those who tried (through COVID) to destroy your life or try (through government controlled education) to destroy your children. Vote them out. They would do it to you. You will not be harming America by exercising your rights. You will more likely be helping her.
Damn the torpedoes, and God Bless America.
It was Biden’s party, not the Republicans, who wanted to pack the Supreme Court. It was Biden’s party, not the Republicans, who went beyond disagreeing with specific SCOTUS decisions and claimed the court itself was illegitimate. It was Biden’s party, not the Republicans, who wanted to rip apart the Senate’s century-old procedures, end the filibuster, and turn the chamber into a replica of the House.
I wasn't sure that I wanted to get political today, even though we are having an election as I speak. Politics are just too damned maddening. But I don't feel that I can any longer keep my mouth shut about Joe Biden's threats to me. Yes, me.
The above quote is from an article I ran across Monday. You can read it here: Chicken Little. The upshot is that President Joe Biden, the Great Healer, the Great Uniter (so he says), has basically called me, yes, me, a threat to democracy and the American Way simply because I will vote straight Republican a few minutes from now. This after he and his Democrat colleagues accused the GOP of stealing the 2016 Presidential Election (via the debunked Russia collusion assertion) and the 2018 Georgia Governors election (and now lie about that).
We GOPers are against America, yet he and his cronies want to turn the Constitution upside down. Here's another bit from the article: It was Biden himself who evaded the Constitution’s fundamental directive that all expenditures must first be approved by Congress, and that those appropriation bills must begin in the House. Instead, he ordered a half-trillion dollar program of student loan forgiveness by presidential fiat, completely ignoring Congress.
That's something a dictator does. Someone who doesn't love or respect America, American principles, or the very democracy he claims to support. Then he has the gall to call me, yes, me, a threat. He's calling an awful lot of you that too.
I can't make up my mind if I want to protect the decorum of this blog, or use the actual words behind Let's Go Brandon. So I'll walk a fine line instead.
President Biden...and the horse you rode in on.
As the great majority of you know, me Grandpa Joe rented welding equipment for many a year. For a lot of them years me Pops was one of his main delivery drivers. Dad used to love sitting in the office shanty on job sites before the day's work began, listening to the war stories and likely offering a few himself.
One day as he was early with a delivery most all of the weldors on hand were in the shanty drinking coffee and talking, having not yet set out to earn their daily bread. The guys were bragging about how much iron they were going to hang once they got started. It was going to be a big, productive day.
The job foreman, whom I'll call Cloyce just to give him a name, sat by silently taking in the revelry. Finally he had heard enough. Turning to Pops he said, overly loud but wanting everyone to hear, "You know, Red (they called me Pops Red when he was younger because his hair was red back then), if these fellas hung as much iron on the job as they did in the shed, we'd be a high-ballin' outfit."
Cloyce was ribbing them but to a point. They were put on notice to live up to their bragging when the work started. Pride can drive a man to a lot of things. One of them is to put up or shut up.
"Marty?"
"Yeah, Marty?"
"Is it true that you're as old as you feel?"
"Sure it is. Course."
"Care to test that theory Marty?"
"Whatcha got in mind Marty?"
"Just a little yard work, that's all"
"You're on, Marty!"
Ninety minutes later...
"Marty?"
"What, Marty?" asked testily.
"How old do you feel?"
"Shaddup, Marty. And will ya keep the leaf bag open this time?"
I have no way of knowing for certain, but last night may have been the best Halloween in terms of numbers that we've had. They just kept coming and coming, sometimes in waves, usually a few at a time. But we passed out candy from about 5:15 until after 8:30. Typically there's just a two hour window of, say, 6-8.
The weather was great. It was warm for a late October day here in the D, 65 in fact. Perhaps it reflects the pent up demand from the COVID years too. People can finally relax again.
On the whole, the trick or treaters were quite cordial. We complain that manners are gone by the wayside but I didn't see it last night. Lots of thank yous and such. There was even a small marching band dressed for the occasion and going around the neighborhood. Other than some old guy's back giving out from standing so long, it wasn't a bad night at all.
Charlie Brown's friend Linus famously sought the most sincere pumpkin patch in the world to wait for the Great Pumpkin. Guess what, Linus? I've found it.
This is me brother Patrick's pumpkin patch, lovingly set out every October for Halloween. I think I would like to spend the night in it, as I'm certain it's the one within which the Great Pumpkin would alight. Yet as a 62-year-old man with sinus issues and an aversion to being committed (quiet Ron) I think I'll pass.
I hope the Great Pumpkin forgives me. And that he forgivingly brings my gifts down the block.
The other day while on the road in the late afternoon near Utica, Michigan, I saw a pizza delivery guy. He was tooling along with the removeable sign of a pizza place adorned on the roof of his car. His Maserati, in fact.
Maseratis are high end luxury cars which have a bottom end price of about $80,000, according to my low tech yet reliably scientific Internet search. But here's a fella delivering pizzas in one.
Either pizza delivery is much more lucrative than I imagined (perhaps it has a James Bond element which has somehow been overlooked) or Junior borrowed Dad's car. Not, I would think, that any Dad who could afford a Maserati and a family would allow his progeny to use his glamor car for a mundane teenage after school job.
"But Daaad, I need the money for my date with white bread WASP girl this weekend," Junior had pleaded.
"Oh, let him use the car, Ward, dear," Mother would gently insist, staring above her knitting as Junior looked on hopefully.
I don't know about you, but neither angle seems plausible to me. Yet there it was: the Maserati Pizza Guy.
Me son Charlie and I exchanged a series of text messages last night talking, basically, about the classic holiday specials and movies. It reminded me that, like the many books I haven't read, there are many great movies I'd like to see.
I love what I've seen by Frank Capra of It's a Wonderful Life fame. Among my standards of what makes a film classic is that it needs to leave a lump in your throat at least once, and Wonderful Life does that several times. When George Bailey is begging for his life back and it begins to snow, signaling that he's alive again, wow. That's how you make movies. Still, Capra's made many highly regarded, even legendary, films which I have yet to see. It Happened One Night, Lost Horizon, and Mr. Deeds Goes to Town head that list.
Stanley Kubrick is one who's made some solid movies, although he tends to excess. But unless and until I see something better 2001: A Space Odyssey will be my favorite movie. Of his movies which I haven't seen, I want to see Spartacus.
After seeing Metropolis (I wrote about that here) I'm open to silent films, yet nothing comes to mind as I write. Any suggestions?
Charlie and I agreed we need to make lists of what movies we need to see. Perhaps this will serve to start.
Yesterday while on the road I stopped by a restaurant which was an old haunt of me Pops. It was early, and I was making good time. He liked the breakfasts there; so do I. The planets aligned.
The waitress remarked that I had a distinct voice. This was actually something I had heard before. Indeed, one wag said I had a voice for the Cartoon Network. I'm still not entirely sure whether I should be angry or complimented.
But to continue. Beth, the waitress, told me she actually recognized the voice yet couldn't quite place it. She would figure it out, she assured me.
Within a few minutes she was refilling my coffee cup and a light lit above her. It was really cool because it was an actual electric light which had flipped on at such an angle from my point of view that it appeared directly above her head as she began to speak. "You sound just like the little helper from Pinocchio, who was it? Yeah, Jiminy Cricket!"
Again, should I be insulted or complimented? Am I an iconic cartoon character or a nagging little bug? I supposed it is nice to be recognized for something though.
The Astros and the Phillies in the World Series? Didn't see that coming.
The Detroit Lions lost a winnable game? Saw that coming.
Halloween is next Monday. Is that your Halloween too or have they moved it?
It's supposed to be warm today and tomorrow, then that's probably it for 2022 around here. Ah well. Had to happen sometime, at least here in Michigan.
Maybe I did actually see the Astros in the Series, come to think of it. Surprised the Yankees sent so quietly though.
And...bye for now.
Unless I miss my mark, one hundred years ago today, October 22, 1922, me Grandmaw and Grandpaw Hutchins were married. The marriage lasted until June 1979 when Grandmaw passed suddenly. Grandpaw lived until May 1987.
One Hundred Years later only me Aunt Bobbie remains of their eight kids, although many grandchildren, great grandchildren, and great great grandchildren abound as their legacy. There may even be some great great greats; I don't pretend to know all aspects of our extended family anymore.
I remember their Fiftieth Anniversary from 1972 very well. Now that's been doubled. I'll make it a point to say a prayer or two for them today.
They only offered scratch off tickets then, the kind that you instantly win (or generally lose) with, and few retailers initially had the state lottery. One Saturday night early on, Mom and Dad and us kids started playing the lottery, oh, at about 6 in the evening. We'd pony up our bucks, as the tickets were a dollar each at the time, and me Pops and me drove down to a store on Dix Road in Lincoln Park. It was eight or nine miles from home but the nearest place we knew that had lottery. He'd bring the tickets back to the house and we'd each scratch ours off. There were always enough small winners to merit going back out.
Which we did, several times. If I had to guess I'd say we made ten trips from downtown Detroit to Lincoln Park, me Pops and I, never having won more than a few dollars at a time yet enough to fuel our lottery fever. It reached the point where Dad and I had the only winners. And of course, we each won another few bucks with that. It got to where we never left the parking lot of that party store until our winnings and a little bit more were spent. I think we sat in that lot a half an hour, scratching tickets, winning a bit, going back in, then scratching those in the car. And all the while cackling like idiots at the absurdity of it. I rarely heard the old man laugh so heartily, so insanely, as that night.
Who started it I don't know. But you know how it is: laughter, especially uproarious laughter, often feeds itself. It stokes its own coals. I mean, we were both laughing harder than hell. We'd say we were done after these tickets, and then win three dollars and start again. We laughed until we hurt; laughed until we cried. It was just bizarre. Anyone walking by and noticing the two morons in the old Polara wagon had to have thought we were nuts. But for me and me Pops, it was a fun time.
So I haven't won the lottery. But it kinda felt like I did that night.
Yesterday I found myself talking to myself while I installed a new reverse switch on an Electric Eel Model C (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs). Only thing was, the customer was standing right by me as I worked. Only other thing was, I didn't care.
At one time I would have been embarrassed by that. Yet this time around I even remarked to the guy, "A fella's getting pretty comfortable with who he is and what he's doing when he can carry on a conversation with himself and another man standing there."
He just smiled and replied, "I ain't sayin' nuthin, Cosgriff. I don't want to interfere with your method."
Thank you sir. That's what we'll call it: my method. It sounds a far sight better than going crazy.
Me Great Uncle Bill, a brother to me Grandpa Joe, owned a garage down in Jacksonville, Illinois where our particular branch of Clan Cosgriff originated, at least in these United States. He was a crackin' good mechanic too by all accounts, with a thriving business. Me Pops would sometimes help out when the Detroit Cosgriffs were in town for visits.
One of Dad's first assignments was an oil change. Not being sure exactly how tight oil plugs were supposed to be reinstalled on vehicles, he took what his teenaged mind thought the obvious route. Pops elected to tighten the hell out of it.
Great Uncle Bill, having by chance seeing his nephew's super strength being applied to the bolt, blandly suggested, "Red (Dad had red hair up into adulthood when it turned black), they might want to change the oil again someday."
Me Pops got the message. As it was much more subtly put than what he would have given by his own Pops, me Grandpa Joe, he likely quite appreciated the style in which such sage wisdom was delivered.
A tradition I discovered yesterday during the Detroit Free Press Marathon was that spectators often cheered the runners by ringing cow bells. That's all right, but as we all know, curlers used the cow bell cheer first.
The Swiss have for years inspired their national curling teams with cow bell ringing. As a curler, I have a sweater which attests to it.
So go ahead and wave your cow bells at the 2023 Detroit Marathon. Wave them vigorously. But just to set the record straight: you're copiers, not innovators. We did it first.
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