Begin the Week, End the Month

A few weeks ago I related that I'm having ankle pain, sometimes severe enough that I can barely walk, above my left foot. At the time I went in to have X-Rays taken.

They were inconclusive. Just my luck. So by the time you're reading this I hope to have had an MRI finished. My appointment was at 6 AM this morning at Harper Hospital in Detroit. It was the first appointment of the day and honestly, I leapt at it. Maybe I'm fooling myself with some psychological game playing, but I feel like I'm gaining a day on the results, being so early on and first in line. I especially like that last part. We all know how delays pile onto one another as time goes on.

What a way to begin a week. Or end a month I suppose, as it is January 31st. I truly hope that the MRI will find an easily handled issue. Perhaps the answer will only be to keep my foot out of my mouth after all.

Trivial Pursuit

I like trivia. Interesting little tidbits of truly useless information can be entertaining, and even occasionally enlightening. Still, it's trivia, right? I do wonder sometimes why we take such delight in minutiae, especially completely irrelevant data.

Facebook told me this morning that Matthew Stafford will be the first former Detroit Lions quarterback since Earl Morrall in 1972 to start an NFL Conference Championship game. 

Ok, fine. But I am curious: who actually took the time to determine that question even existed, let alone dig up the answer? Does the NFL have a department of what happened to former Detroit Lions quarterbacks precisely to address such burning issues?

But take a bow, Earl. Apparently you've earned it. As to Mr. Stafford, I doubt he cares.

I Don't Care, Cloyce

There's this one customer, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who apparently believes that I'm totally invested in his life story. He tries to tell it to me every time he calls.

"Hey Cosgriff, I gotta come by today and get me a cutter." 

"Okay, Cloyce."

"I have to take my wife to the doctor first,"

"That's fine, Cloyce."

"Then she wants to go grocery shopping,"

"Whatever, Cloyce."

"And we have to pick up our kid from school, it's an early day,"

"I don't care, Cloyce."

"After that I have to exchange that bad water heater,"

"I don't care, Cloyce. Not in the least. Exchange the heater."

"Of course I need to stop at Mom's and see that she's good,"

"I hope she is, Cloyce."

"Oh! And I need tires on my work van,"

"I don't care, Cloyce. Not in the slightest. Get tires. Check on Mom. Go shopping. Pick up the kid from school. I'll see you when you get here."

"It's running hot, the van, so I best stop by the mechanic too..."

By that point I just put the phone on speaker, set it down, and go about my work. Eventually he'll clam up, do his thing, and get to the Shop for the cutter.

And I'll hear all about his day. Again. I still won't care.

Opie the Terminator

Since I'm thinking about it, seeing as I spoke about Opie from the Andy Griffith Show yesterday, I am reminded of one of me Pops' favorite pictures.

Me son Frank is redheaded. When he was still quite young, 6 or 7 or thereabouts, he had a faux leather jacket we'd put on him when it was chilly. He also had a pair of sunglasses he liked. 

One day as we arrived at me Mom and me Pops for a visit, Frank was wearing both. "It's Opie the Terminator!" Pops remarked with a hearty laugh. 

We have a picture of him that day. I need to find it.

Empathizing with Opie

This blog is going to be stupid. I knew before I even began writing it that it was going to be stupid. Quiet, Ron.

I had to turn off The Andy Griffith Show last night. Not for any bad reason, of course. It's the Andy Griffith Show, Mayberry and rural America from the early 1960s for cryin' out loud. Nothing really bad ever happened there. But I simply had to flip to another station. I felt too bad, terrible in fact, for Opie.

Young Opie brought in a report card which was all A's. He was proud, and his Paw Andy was proud, and Aunt Bee was proud. The it turned out that the teacher has made a mistake and transposed the wrong grades onto the boy's card. It was an honest enough mistake, but watching Opie slump his shoulders and become forlorn, standing next to his teacher's desk as she apologized for the error, well, I felt awful for him.

Then in the next scene Andy is showing Aunt Bee the bike he bought Opie as a reward for the good grades, and all I could think was how much worse the youngster was going to feel when he was given it. I had to change the channel. I could not watch it.

It probably didn't help that the show immediately before was one where Opie, completely accidentally, killed a mother bird. To make up for it, he raised the babies by himself, only to have to deal with letting them fly off on their own when they were old enough. I had a lump in my throat over that. 

Then comes the erroneous report card episode. I knew everything would be all right in the end. Like I say, it was Mayberry. Still, I couldn't keep watching. 

Not that long ago I didn't believe that I was becoming as sentimental as I long expected to be as I aged. Now it looks like I'm going off the cliff, dripping with cloying empathy.

Squirrely

When you've dealt with drain cleaning and drain cleaners for as long as I have, you hear many stories. It's amazing what can find its way into your sewer. Potatoes, toys; once at my Church a candle holder, a flat brass circle about three inches in diameter, was somehow flushed through a toilet and was acting like a butterfly valve, allowing the commode to work only at its whim. Sometimes even animals can get into a line and die. Their bodies swell up and block the drain. It's yucky, to be sure.

Once an old plumber, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, had to deal with a dead squirrel which had plugged a sewer. I won't go into details (remember, there's yucky) but Cloyce worked and worked until he removed unfortunate rodent, by then a member of the choir invisible. Yet his heroics did not satisfy the old woman who owned the house where the chore took place.

"She got mad at me. She was yelling at me!" Cloyce exclaimed to me Pops one day, shock still in his voice. "She didn't want to pay. I said, lady, I didn't put it down there!"

"Well how else did it get in?" she demanded.

"How should I know?" Cloyce barked back at her. "I mighta come in from the city main. It maybe slipped through your downspout and got caught. But I didn't put it there and you owe me for opening your sewer!"

He got paid, but it was an effort. More effort, he told Pops, than the actual work.

Why Turn the Other Cheek

Over the weekend I read Catholicism, by Bishop Robert Barron. It is a wonderfully instructive and concise view of the Catholic faith. 

Among the many things he addressed, one which came across powerfully dealt with Christ's famous order to turn the other cheek. What is most often mistaken with that passage is that Our Lord is instructing us to meekness.

The joke is, He's not. The instruction to turn the other cheek is in fact revolutionary and defiant.

Jesus tells us that if we are struck on the right cheek, offer our left. It's important to notice that, because in ancient Israel you did nothing with your left hand; it violated cultural norms. To strike someone on the right cheek meant the attacker backhanded you. He had to hit your right cheek with the back of his right hand. He would not slap with his left because he could not, by rule, so to speak, use his left hand for anything.

In that light, offering your left cheek was a challenge, a dare. The person attacked would effectively be saying, what are you going to do now? It was you telling the striker he had no real power over you, that he had done all he could and there was nothing more he could do. His power was limited.

Ideally, such a bold action would cause the attacker to realize his evil and repent. But the key aspect isn't nonviolence (although that is the best possible result) but putting the other guy in his place, showing the world that you and not he occupy the higher moral ground. We are not going to let others trample us. We are in fact calling them out when we turn the other cheek.

High Volumes

I had to call Blue Cross with a question recently, and was greeted with a message: 'Due to unusually high call volumes, there may be a long wait to speak to a person'.

When calling DTE with an issue about my energy bill I was mechanically told: 'Due to high call volumes there may be longer than usual wait times'.

A similar thing happened with a third call. That's when it occurred to me that this has been happening for years, perhaps decades, and with many different companies and services. You'd think by now they might hire somebody to assist with all those call volumes...

Curiouser and Curiouser

I drink a lot of flavored carbonated water these days: about a quart a day. So naturally, the point came where I read the nutrition information on the bottle. There are three servings per bottle. One serving is zero calories, while a full bottle has ten calories. 

Now, I'm no math whiz. But shouldn't that mean that there's just over three calories per serving? Or do the calories magically develop once you've had the last swig of the bottle?

Can we transfer this science to, say, cake? Unless I eat the whole cake there aren't any calories? Sure would make dieting easier. And more fun.

Marty's Armageddon

The first book I ever wrote to completion is A Subtle Armageddon. The following is the Amazon link, and notice you can buy a kindle version. I have my son and daughter in law to thank for that. Their work on it is very much appreciated.

A Subtle Armageddon

My inspiration is found in C. S. Lewis' The Abolition of Man. What, I wondered, would be the embodiment of a true last man on Earth, based on Lewis's conjecture that such a man would be an entirely 'made' man. But made how and of what, and by whom and for what purpose, that man himself could not know. Or could he? On that question I built my story.

I'm rather proud of Armageddon, to be honest, particularly (spoiler alert) the very last line. I fancy it the best turn of phrase I've come up with, at least so far. But if you don't understand the point of the book that quiet little sentence will surely fall flat. 

I don't know if that's the case. Yet the question which has always been at the back of my mind since I finished the thing was whether I made the point reasonably easy to see. I didn't want it to be too easy because that, in my opinion, would spoil the read. At the same time if the basic idea for writing it doesn't come through to the average reader then it may not be a good book at all, the very end notwithstanding.

And that's what troubles me. I've always been afraid that A Subtle Armageddon is somewhat obscure. I'm not sure that the reader will get the point. But if you're game to try, it's free through Kindle Unlimited, and I would love to hear your opinion. 

Not a Democracy

We're not a democracy.

We're not a democracy.

We're not a democracy.

Keep saying it. Keep telling it to people. Remind them constantly and consistently. We are a constitutional republic. We should stay a constitutional republic. 

Democracies are ultimately tyrannies. Tyrannies of the majority where, left unchecked, left without protection for the rights of the political minority, they will destroy us.

Majority rule should never be absolute. Simply having the most votes is far from a guarantee that you're right. You may only be running roughshod over the true rights of the people. The natural rights of the people.

We are not a democracy. And in our sane moments, we do not want to be.

Useful Tools

Yesterday I spoke about my new novel, David Gideon. You can check it out here: David Gideon or at Amazon or you favorite bookseller.

Today I want to talk about how useful of a book it is. For example you can, open your mind to this idea, read it. Yes, you can! It's very readable indeed. But what's more, you really should carry a copy of David Gideon everywhere you go, as it can be helpful in many ways.

Take, for example, when you go out to eat. You know when the hostess seats you at a wobbly table - you always get that table, don't you? - and the rocking drives you crazy? Fear not! David Gideon is precisely the right thickness to level it. Slide a copy under the short leg, or on that low spot on the floor and hey presto, you have a solid, balanced table on which to have an uneventful meal.

David Gideon. For your dining enjoyment.

David Gideon

It's here. It's available. My revised novel about an everyman who happens to become President has now been released. You can check it out here:

David Gideon

We all know that an everyman could never be President; politics will typically destroy men and women of principle and common sense. But David Gideon is about more than that. It's a story of a good man's life, and the interactions and prodding of his closest friends.

I've been told by several people that it's an easy read which tells a compelling tale. I hope so, because that's what I was going by for: a straightforward story of a principled man committed to doing things right and well. The actual political machinations I purposely kept to a minimum precisely because they would be dull. Campaigns are glossed over in part because no sane individual cares about them. The novel is about the man David Gideon, not the politician David Gideon. That man is only incidental to the story.

David is just a guy committed to his family and friends who otherwise wants to be left alone, but is called to something higher. It's a bit Capraesque, and maybe a bit corny. I like to fancy that it appeals to the soul, that little voice inside us who wants things to be right, to be the way they ought to be. I enjoyed his story and I think you would too.

Clear Orders from Headquarters

I took me Mom out shopping yesterday, and when we were finished and back in the new old van she blurted, "Are we gonna eat?"

"Sure," I answered. "We're about 45 minutes from home. We can make sandwiches when we get there," I continued, joshing her.

Immediately, I knew I had crossed a line. Stepped on toes. Creased the envelope. Went a bridge too far. She was giving me the Mom stare.

I returned the glare, melting all the while just the same, because you better not turn away either. Being a Mom, she had to let it burn into me for a few seconds. Finally she said with certainty, "We will go to McDonald's, or maybe Burger King, and get cheeseburgers."

"Yes ma'am. Absolutely, ma'am. Right away, ma'am. We'll go to McDonald's..."

"Or Burger King."

"Yes, ma'am, or Burger King, ma'am. For cheeseburgers, ma'am."

She nodded regally. 

I think she was only teasing. But I was glad we quickly came upon a BK.

Baseball Theology

I exchanged several text messages with a good friend of mine yesterday. We're both huge baseball fans and both Catholic, so I knew he would get the joke. But I believe most anyone will appreciate the following quip as well.

At one point Nick texted that it seemed most people's baseball memories begin at about 8 years old. I agreed, citing theology. 

You see, the Catholic Church teaches that the age of reason is 7. Typically it's at seven years old we are able to differentiate the good from the bad, the right from the wrong, the well from the ill. So I responded it makes perfect sense that we would learn to love baseball by 8.

Get it? 

My Left Foot

Everything was going well. My doctor had the order for my foot X-rays ready when I arrived at his office. There was no one in front of me at the X-ray station at the hospital next door. Yesterday was proceeding rather smoothly indeed.

Then I had to get the actual X-rays.

I did not know that my foot could get into the positions the technician put it into. Neither did the rest of me. As I sat up on the table and he twisted my left foot outward, a complete chain reaction was caused along my entire body. I had to turn myself against my left hip, stretch my leg out, and hold my torso up with my hands behind my back (otherwise he would not have gotten the right angle). It was as if I were playing solo Twister while gamma rays were being fired into my body. 

"Hold perfectly still," the technician told me sternly.

I laugh. Ha, ha! Surely you jest.

That's when I got the Mr. Spock raised eyebrow. The X-ray tech did not, in fact, jest.

Fortunately that was the worst of the five X-rays taken, although the other four had their own special levels of discomfort. I appreciated getting that first one out of the way though. 

The damn thing is that through all the twisting and turning and hold still-ing, my ankle didn't hurt at all. Not one bit. I could hardly walk on Thursday (which prompted my call to the doctor who ordered the X-rays). Foot pain has been an issue for me off and on for at least a year, foot and ankle pain so bad I could barely hobble around at times. But as it's becoming more on than off, it was high time to do something about it, right? Yet I had no pain at all while enduring the procedures. I walked out of the hospital just fine after hobbling in. 

Of course, when I stepped out of my new old van on returning home, I nearly went down in a heap. So it goes.

My doctor will have the X-rays Tuesday, so hopefully I'll have reasonably good news then. I fully expect the diagnosis to be COVID though.

Sorry. I couldn't resist that.

X-Ray Marty

Well, I'm heading out in a few minutes to have an X-ray. My left ankle has been painful off and on for awhile now, so me doctor wants to see what's wrong. It's weird; the ankle will be fine for days, maybe even a few weeks, and out of nowhere, and I mean literally out of nowhere, it'll hurt like hell and I can't put weight on it. 

No, I did not twist my ankle wrenching my foot out of my mouth. So. There.

Although I suppose, metaphorically, I have had my foot in my mouth a lot.

January 12 in History

What happened on January 12 in history you ask? A few things.

Some guy became the emperor of the Byzantine Empire today in 475.

Another guy became King of Burma on this day in 1553.

A Brazilian city was founded in 1616.

In Charleston, South Carolina, a Museum opened in 1773.

Someone became Emperor of China on this day in 1875.

Some couple got married today in 2001.

There you have it. Today in history.

Oops...it seems that the guy who became King of Burma became so on this date in 1554. My apologies.

Cleese, Rotely

My current read is an autobiography, So, Anyway...by John Cleese of Monty Python fame. The cover is the top half of his face, eyes wide open as though shocked, with blue feathers floating around him. If you get the joke you're a true Python fan. If not, you're missing on a bit of inspired humor.

The book is quite good in a very English way, and I'm sure I'll talk more about it as time goes on. But interestingly what has surprised and intrigued me most so far has nothing to do with comedy.

I has not known that Cleese taught school for two years before heading to Cambridge and what became a renowned career in a much more zany world than education, although education has become zany in a decidedly unfunny way. That too is a question for another day. 

What I was pleased to discover was that this man who I admire for his comic genius believes in a kind of education which I do too, an approach to education which is well out of favor these days yet I firmly believe ought to be widely employed in the schools. Cleese is a believer in rote learning, of drill and simply committing things to memory.

Make the kids at a young age learn the States and their Capitols. Make them learn the planets and their moons. Drill them on the multiplication tables. Have a large part of history classes a memorization of dates and events. Fill their heads with rote fact and detail. Why? Because it makes them learn to concentrate. It thus helps them think more clearly because they must appreciate detail.

It surprises me not that too many adults today can't think in nuance when they weren't ever taught to see detail. Knowledge has become about what we feel is true rather than a consideration of what is actually true. Drill and repetition, rote learning early on, is what makes us focus on the details which we need to understand if we are to ever comprehend complex situations.

I don't care for everything Cleese says (he appears to use psychology as a crutch in the same manner he criticizes the religious using religion as a crutch) and some of his humor is far too crude. But it was fascinating and rather a delight to find that he and I agree on at least one very basic need for our schoolchildren.

Lemon Lime Risks

I am often accused of being unwilling to try new things. That is patently unfair. I'm more than willing enough to try new things.

Why, just yesterday while I was in Dollar General buying blood orange flavored carbonated water I took  a walk out on the edge. I loosened my wild side. Determining to try something different, I bought - you'll gasp at how bold of a choice this was - lemon lime flavored water. 

It tasted like lime with a twist of lemon. Or maybe lemon with a shot of lime juice, I'm not sure. 

I also went ahead and bought two bottles of blood orange, just to make sure I had something I like. No reason to throw all caution to the wind now, is there?

Trying to Force a Joke

I wonder, if you illegally took a loaf of German fruit bread from a store, would that make it stolen stollen?

You see, stollen is a kind of German fruit bread. And stolen is the illegally taking of someone else's stuff. When you put the two words together, see, there's a sort of pun at work, running them together like that. Stolen Stollen. It's alliterative too. That means it's sort of funny, and sort of a joke.

Oh bother. Me brothers were right. It isn't going to work. Especially since it would be difficult to steal stollen, as the powdered sugar topping which stollen often has for icing would leave a trail.

No Nonsense Barber

As I was way overdue for a haircut, having not had one since September, I found a reasonably priced barber ($11, for the record) in Garden City yesterday and decided that was a sign to get rid of my excess and wild hair.

I was greeted by a young woman who asked, in an odd, demanding way, as though she had a chip on her shoulder, "Can I help you?"

"Uh, I'd like a haircut."

"Siddown," she commanded, ripping a barber's apron off a chair.

I saddown.

She asked how I wanted my hair cut. "Fairly short on the sides, leave me something to comb," I answered. The I added, trying to be funny, "I want to look like my dad."

"Doesn't help me," she responded tersely. 

It, uh, wasn't a serious statement. "Well, then, just short with something to comb," I reiterated, cowed.

Don't barbers have to take the same chit chat course as barkeeps? Trying to hold up my end of that deal, I attempted to converse. "Cold day, isn't it?"

"uh-hmm." 

"Been cutting hair awhile?"

"Yes."

"Think the Lions'll win tomorrow?"

"Could."

It was then that I realized how very focused she was at her job. I've never seen anyone quicker with the shears, scissors, or a straight razor. Seeing as my eyeballs and ear lobes were in her firing range, I decided to leave her to her work. The fact is she was fast, so much so that I decided I shouldn't risk breaking her concentration. But she was smooth, too. The shears were almost gliding, with no pull at all on my hair. Her scissoring was sharp and crisp, and her job with the straight razor on the final trim work would shame a mob enforcer. Typically that trim work leaves the back of a man's neck a bit red and raw. Not mine, not yesterday.

And the haircut itself was very good, one of the best I've had. I tipped her four bucks. Her lips almost curled into a smile as she said, "Thank you." She was clearly trying to smile. I believe though that she had to fight muscle memory to force even that much of grin.

Just the same, I'll have her cut my hair again. I'll just leave the chit chat at home.

Popes, People, and Pets

I really don't know what to make of Pope Francis. Bluntly said, and Heaven help me if I'm wrong, I've found myself wondering whether he is an anti-Pope of some sort, given his apparent blind eye toward critical issues and events within the Church and seeming anathema over certain traditions. Then he says something which is actually bold and forceful, and is unfairly maligned. He says something which is exactly the sort of thing one should expect that the leader of the Catholic Church might say, and gets lambasted for it.

Stripped of the overwrought emotion which the Holy Father's critics have aimed at him, all Pope Francis effectively said the other day (you can read his actual words here: Pope and pets ) was that when people in a legitimate position to have children choose to raise or rescue animals in place of having or adopting human children, they are selfish. He asserted this on the very reasonable ground that human beings are more important than animals, that people simply are on a higher moral plane than other creatures on Earth. Our obligations toward our fellow human beings are naturally more demanding on us than our obligations towards mere animals.

I don't see a thing in the world wrong with such an attitude. Of all the criticisms I've heard lobbed at him over his remarks, he didn't at all condemn those who, through no fault of their own, couldn't have children. He didn't say there weren't legitimate psychological, physical, medical, economic or other reasons not to have kids. He didn't say people were wrong to be single by choice (or certainly by circumstance). He didn't say it was wrong to have pets, or that animals should be treated poorly. He simply said that if you're in a reasonable position to support kids you should, up to and including adoption, and that thus choosing to have pets instead of children wrongly puts animals above people. Simple as that. It's a valid point to make, and based on what Catholic teaching has held for centuries.

If you don't agree with him, fine, don't agree with him. But he expressed a perfectly true sentiment which ought not shock anyone: people are more important than animals, and deserve greater care and consideration than they do.  Real, and even potential, children, merit it. Using that guide, the Pope merely asserts that pets and other animals should never be put before or in place of kids in the grand scheme of things.

And you know what? He's right.

Phil is Phil

Phil is Phil. Really. Yet me brother Phil seems to be a man without a name.

There's a guy Phil and I have known for years who always, without fail, in individual conversation with me brother, addresses Phil as Marty. Phil has quit trying to correct him as it simply has not worked and there appears no hope that it ever will. I realize that, as the most exalted older brother, my light shines before him and certainly obliterates his presence. Phil simply must learn to live in the glare of my notoriety. It is his cross to bear. But he nevertheless deserves his own name.

He laments that when in high school having a class with our brother Ed, Sister Teacher when reading the roll always said, "Cosgriff, Edward and William," at their names.

"Phillip, Sister," he would correct.

"Yes, William," Sister would respond.

Phil thinks that, for the good Nun, it was only a cutesy running joke. At least, he's trying to believe that.

Defend rather than Attack

One of the errors in debate is the unwillingness or inability of one side (or both) to not vilify the opponent. The sad thing is that it would be rather easy to avoid demonizing the other guy. It comes down to refusing to employ the ad hominem argument: don't attack the speaker, defend your idea.

For example, don't call the other man Hitler or the devil or by any snide name. I readily concede that your opponent may indeed be more than simply wrong. He may very well be evil. Yet that truly is a judgement beyond anyone except God Almighty's ability to make, and is actually a separate idea from what your adversary is arguing anyway. When the person and the argument are confused it really only muddies the waters more than they may already be. 

If in debate we are trying to demonstrate what is right, then strive to demonstrate what is right. Calling the other person evil or stupid or whatever negative adjective you might very much like to employ does not address their error. It can, however, turn off the people you want to convince of the rightness or propriety of a certain point of view. Flag waving may well increase your street cred. But it is ultimately only grandstanding, playing to an audience which already agrees with you.

Please forgive my over-indulging in italics. But I want to underscore, I want to fervently stress, that we can disagree without being disagreeable. Indeed that we must strive to do exactly that, even if it boggles our minds that someone might think or believe wrongly. At the end of the day, we don't need to let people know exactly what we think about our adversaries. We need to convince them to act rightly for rightness' sake.

Tommy Matchick

We don't pay enough attention to the unsung heroes of the world, the everyman who actually gets most of the worthwhile things in life done. I suppose this is simply the way things are, the way circumstances would have it. I even found out about Tommy Matchick's death by accident while trolling the Internet. He passed away yesterday at 78.

He hit a two run home run in the bottom of the Ninth Inning to beat the Baltimore Orioles (Sorry, Nick) 5 to 4 at old Tiger Stadium in a game considered critical in Detroit's race to the World Series in 1968. It was a Friday night; I remember listening to the game with me Pops on his little transistor radio. We whooped and hollered over it. Baltimore was chasing us that year, trying to keep the pressure on. 

It was one of only four homers hit by Matchick in a bouncing career which, somewhat ironically, ended with a stint on the Orioles in late 1972. His last game was October 3 of that year, as the Tigers again went to the postseason and Baltimore did not.

I'll always remember him for that game in '68. I've always had a fondness for the guys who barely make it to the big leagues and hang around enough to have a moment or two in the sun. I remember seeing him on TV in 2018 as the Tigers celebrated the 50 year Anniversary of the 1968 World Series. He appeared happy, even giddy, at being part of the festivities. Good for him that he had the chances, both in 1968 and 2018.

But more than baseball, he and his wife had two kids of their own while sponsoring 30 foster children after his playing days were over. In baseball he managed to receive a few accolades. I will venture to guess then in being a dad and foster father he garnered quite a few more. He's surely an unsung hero who's earned praise and remembrance. Godspeed, good sir.

Channel Surfing

Well, I was propped up in bed last night with TV for muh friend. Yet its offerings were thin. Could you believe they was nothing on despite their bein' hundreds of channels?

I observed Andy Griffith overseein' Mayberry. No wrong ever lasts in Mayberry, 'ceptin there only having two episodes by the time I caught up to it last evening. I proceeded to channel surf.

They was little in the way of sports beyond poker and cornhole. I got nothing against either, though I scratch me head at cornhole fillin' the airwaves of ESPN. It's fun enough, even tho a simple family reunion pastime seems outta place on national TV. Folks actually make money on that?

Scrolling along the guide channel, one show offered the story description that 'Anna panics at finding her room on fire'. Now, I wouldn't wanna presume to speak for everyone, but it does seem that discovering one's room on fire might just incite a body to panic, sure. But that way of tellin' people what a show is about strikes my soul as understatement. 

Whilst I do pray that Anna's plight was resolved to her benefit, I turned my attention instead to the book I been reading, about the Moon landings. You know, I do believe they may have truly happened.

Yuckmeisters

We Cosgriff boys have our own brand of humor.

While out shopping with Mom yesterday, she spied a loaf of blueberry bread which she opined would go nice with coffee. So of course we bought one.

At her house a couple hours later, me, me brother Ed, and me brother Phil were sitting with her around the kitchen table having, would you believe, blueberry bread and coffee. They do in fact go nicely together. 

As we ate and talked Ed remarked, "The Holidays are cool, but it will be nice to get back into routine tomorrow (Monday, January 3)."

"I agree," I agreed. "I can open the Shop like a regular work day, and tell Phil all the work he needs to do..."

"Which I won't do," Phil interrupted.

"Which won't surprise you Marty, as everything will be back to routine" Ed finished.

Yeah, we're a little proud of ourselves.

Talk About the Weather

I've decried this before. I certainly will again. But this morning offers yet another example of the primary reason I cannot give credence to the climate change fears which someone's bizarre science insists we accept.

Ten days ago we were not forecast to have significant snow overnight January 1 - 2. Then about three days ago the weather boys and girls said to expect 1 to 3 inches...which became 3 to 6 inches by Saturday morning (which was being revised down to 2-4 inches around Midnight). Any way you slice it, I will soon be shovelling the not that long ago unexpected snow, and then cleaning off the cars. Bear in mind too that I haven't even mentioned the temperature anomalies among the ever changing forecasts during this same time period.

They can't predict the weather a week and a half or two weeks ahead of time, but the Earth is ten years from irreparable doom.

I. Don't. Believe. It.

Postscript: where I am, we actually got about an inch. More fuel to the fire so far as my position.

In With the New

Happy New Year everybody! Today is the day we make resolutions which we have every intention to fulfil, yet are successful perhaps 50% of the time. Okay, 25%. 10%. Do I hear even 1 or 2 percent? Still, many of us try our hand at resolutions. Because, hey, got to have a dream...

My main resolutions are two. One is to lose weight; that's a perennial one for most of us I imagine. But I mean it this time...starting tomorrow, because today is a holiday after all. Everything in moderation, including moderation, I was once told. Of course, the speaker was a smoker, and I don't see how you can do that in moderate doses.

The other is, and I'm truly going to have to force myself to do it (more so than the weight thing) is to begin more strenuously promoting my books. I have two in print (don't be impressed by that, as it's easy to get published if you pay for it), two finished on my computer, a third almost completed, a fourth about half done, and another debuting in a revised edition this January 17. I know how readers are, as I have become one. I only need one title to take off, and they will begin searching for me. Hopefully in a good way.

Still, self promotion is something of which I have always been uncomfortable. I don't mind promoting what is good independent of me: I sell Electric Eel drain cleaners because there's no doubt in my mind they're the best thing out there for all your drain and sewer cleaning needs. But 'Hey, hey, you there, look at me here, what I've done is really cool!' is another beast entirely. It is not a posture I crave. One likes to think things speak for themselves; the bad things we do certainly appear to draw an audience. The good, however, seem to require prompting.

To get straight to the point, I find self promotion gauche. I'm not saying there's necessarily anything wrong with it. Perhaps the issue is only a kind of shyness on my part. I know, I know, Marty shy? But believe me, there are ways in which I am, as that may be. And let's be honest: we tend to look down upon the fellow crashing cymbals as he enters the room. Yet at 61 and soon enough to be 62, if it's gonna work I'm the one who's gotta make it work. So prepare ye for what I intend to be regular flag waving for no other cause than me, although I do hope the books are worth reading too.

All that said, I'm really hoping for a great and memorable 2022. I sincerely hope it is for you. 

And FYI, my titles currently available are in the blurb to the right of this missive. David Gideon is the revised one coming out 1/17. Thank you.