Not all About Cloyce

A fine way to get on my bad side is to try to dictate my schedule. One customer, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, tried to do that a few minutes ago.

Cloyce called yesterday and asked when he could bring his machine in for a chuck. I told him to be at the Shop this morning at 10 and I'd take care of it.

So why was he calling at 7:45 AM asking if I was available yet?

Times like that I completely sympathize with me Grandpa Joe's temper. "Cloyce, I told you be there at 10," I reminded him, calming myself enough to not yell it in his ear. 

That irritated me, no, angered me, no, infuriated me no end. He had an appointment. I would honor it. But I also had to honor commitments made to other customers, such as the ones I promised could get their orders or repairs by ten. If their stuff isn't ready at 10 they would be rightfully upset at the excuse, "But guys, Cloyce needed his machine." They would likely think, if not say out loud, if not half scream in consternation, "Cosgriff, you told me I could have mine by 10. I need mine too." I most certainly would not hear, "Oh? You had to get Cloyce's machine ready? I understand, Cosgriff. Go on and do it. I'll wait until next week if you need me to. Anything for Cloyce."

If I give you a time, I will honor it if humanly possible and anticipate that you will too. But as I write, if Cloyce gets at the old barn even at Nine Fifty Nine and Forty Five seconds, he'll get nothing but a stare for that last quarter minute.

Reason 58,319 That I Don't Get Government

Many of you know that I recently had a book published. As of today I am owed for the first month's royalties. No, I'm not taking everyone out. The sales aren't aren't that impressive, although for one month availability with next to no push I'm happy. And I can't get the money anyway until I give my publisher a W-9. I truly don't understand why I must do that. 

Do you know what the book people need in order to pay me? My address and my Social Security Number. Do you know what information goes on a W-9? My address and Social Security Number. Nothing more. Not another scratch.

Why can't I simply give my publisher that information? Why must there even be such a form? It doesn't make sense; I see absolutely no rhyme nor reason for it.

Oh, I'm sure there's some bit of bureaucratic doggerel somewhere which completely justifies it. Once I hear it I'm sure I will be totally converted to the government's reasoning. I just need to be enlightened.

 

That's sarcasm, by the way. I'm sure the justification will not convince me.

Thomas Sowell opined that, for bureaucracies, it's not about the sanest way to do things. It's about the process and nothing else. He's right. 

What's so Original About That?

I am not one for noticing things when it comes to what I do not consider particularly important. When it comes to buying basic necessities, price is usually all what matters to me. To be sure, I am leery of costs which are too low. Do not buy razor blades from the neighborhood dollar store, for example. Trust me and my bleeding chin on that one.

Yet when I need something such as laundry detergent, I grab what is cheap. It goes with the clothes I wear. 

Anyway, as I was starting a load of laundry yesterday I noticed that the otherwise nondescript label on the plastic bottle said proudly, in bold letters: ORIGINAL SCENT.

The term meant nothing to me. Hopefully it was something nice, such as fresh baked bread or mountain pine or apple cinnamon. But original scent might been an actual eau-de-toilette for all I could know, especially as scent is just another word for odor. So at that point I had to hold the open container to my nose and smell it.

It smelled just like, exactly just like, liquid laundry soap. 

Nothing all that original, wouldn't you say?

Hides and Slides

Driving around the Michigan countryside between Pinckney and Hell (there actually is a Hell, Michigan, and Between Pinckney and Hell sounds like it could be a Country song, eh?) Me Mom noticed a sign along the roadside: hidden drive ahead. "Can't be hid too good if they put up a sign about it," she rightly opined.

Indeed.

A while later we were eating our Sunday cheeseburgers at a McDonald's. We sat by the establishment's play place, which had slides and ladders and a ball pit for kids to play in. "Let's go down that slide," Mom said, pointing at the huge yellow tube which spun around three times to the right of the ball pit.

"I'd pay to see you do that," I responded jokingly.

"You'd have to, cause they'd have to pay me to do it," she answered with finality.

We have fun on our Sunday drives.

To Forgive, and to Seek Forgiveness

For Catholics, today's Gospel reading is the famous one about the Prodigal Son. If you think like me, most folks appear to concentrate on the obstinacy of the elder son in the story without much consideration of the actions of the errant sibling.

That's not all bad. There is a great lesson in forgiveness there, as the older son needed to accept and forgive his brother. It strikes me though that few people care to delve all that far into the importance of what the actual Prodigal did. And that was precisely that he admitted he was wrong and sought forgiveness.

The implications of that are strong and warrant attention. Would his father have been forgiving if the son had not sought forgiveness? Notice I am not speaking here about dad's willingness to forgive; we can safely assume he strongly wished to do that. But did he go to his youngest son and say he forgave him while the lad was actively involved in his debauchery? No. Did he go and forgive his son while the boy was still living his life of choice, even in tending pigs? No. Yet when the child came to his senses and accepted he had sinned, and came to beg forgiveness, his father forgave immediately. Quite literally on the spot in fact.

So it strikes me that part of the lesson is that God is willing to forgive, indeed will very readily forgive, if we ask. Yet if we consciously live in ways contrary to God's will, we will not seek forgiveness. In our arrogance and self importance, in the false knowledge that we are somehow right, we will not ask. Consequently, it seems, we should not then expect it.

There will be greater rejoicing, we are taught, over one repentant sinner entering Heaven than over a hundred of the righteous crossing through the Pearly Gates. That is very much to be expected. But notice that that former sinner, that now Glorious Soul, earned his glory through his humility.

Those Who Wait

I can't wait to make my first trip to Hessel in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula. 

I can't wait for an upcoming visit to Boston in June to see Fenway Park again, although I don't understand why the Red Sox aren't selling single game tickets for June games just yet.

I can't wait for the weather to warm up for good. Or, at least, for good until November.

What? I have to wait? I can't make the days move faster?

Then I guess I will wait. Whatcha gonna do?

Fear and Loathing in Detroit

I remember a time, I think it was third grade but after yea many years I don't really know, that I got a bad grade on a school assignment. It was the first of many I assure you. But at the time when you received a grade so very bad as whatever that one was, the paper had to be taken home to be seen by a parent, who would sign that they had seen it and you would return it to teacher.

When back at home on the afternoon where I received The Grade, I showed the paper to Mom. She read it, and then slid it back to me across the kitchen table. "Show this to your father tonight," she instructed.

Those were not words young Marty cared to hear. I am ashamed to admit that by nine or ten years old I wasn't as afraid of me Mom's wrath as I ought to have been. Oh, she could still bring it. I had a healthy respect for her anger. But Dad's anger was simply on the next level. Hell, when I was 50 and the old man was upset, I was intimidated. Dad didn't get mad often so that when he did, you knew it was righteous.

I dreaded showing that paper to me Pops. But evening came and he was sitting at his desk, and I decided to get it over with. "Mom says I got to show you this," I said meekly, handing the damning evidence over to him. 

Pops sat down the invoice he had been studying and read over that rancid assignment. Then he signed it and handed it back. "Do better next time,"  he instructed, with the barest glance at me before returning to his work.

The clouds parted and the Angelic choirs sang. That wasn't bad at all. I'm sure it wasn't anywhere near the response me Mom expected or desired. But she wasn't nearby and I was more than willing to leave things be. I never told her, and I doubt Pops did either. It likely was out of his mind in 30 seconds.

I don't know why he wasn't angrier. Maybe he was too caught up in his paperwork. Maybe my childhood imagination had run too rampant. Maybe he just didn't feel one botched job was all that bad in the grand scheme of things. But I was thanking my lucky stars that night. And it was awhile before my next poor grade.

Ain't Over Until It's Over

A customer called me yesterday and said all he needed was a simple repair, no reason I couldn't do it right away. "It'll be an in and out job, Cosgriff," he assured me.

I laughed out loud when he said it. It was a scoffing laughter too, I'll admit, although in retrospect I do feel bad about that. But something I've learned over the 48 years I've messed around with drain snake repairs: ain't no job easy until it's done. Then it was easy. Jobs are only easy in the past tense.

Perhaps you've seen the meme (you know, the meme, as though it's the only one on the Internet) which says, 'You're only one broken bolt away from a 20 minute repair becoming a three day ordeal'. How. True.

Machines have routinely come to me with issues which would ordinarily take ten minutes and cost $25, part and labor. Yet similar repairs become $125 (or even more) and not ready for a week because old parts won't cooperate as they should. I may end up replacing two or maybe three other items which normally wouldn't even be a worry. But that given day with that given machine, and you're in a fresh new hell.

I advised the caller to bring his machine in tomorrow (which would be today of course). I had too much to do today (which would be yesterday as of now) which had to get done before I could look at his unit. Maybe it will be easy peasy lemon squeezy. I hope so. But I won't know until it's done and I'm paid. It's as simple as that.

Satan's Fiddle

Okay, I'm probably going to lose all my hillbilly street cred to say this, but, hey, what's a Wednesday without riling someone up? Without stirring the pot? Without, without, without some third concept which means basically the same thing as riling someone up or stirring the pot?

The Devil Went Down to Georgia is classic southern rock, am I right? It deserves to be high on the list of great 70s country. But now, let's be honest: the Devil actually outplayed Johnny, right? Come on, we've all thought it. Might as well say it.

Sorry Charlie, uh, Daniels. It's a great, great song. But you really needed to tone down the Great Satan's fiddle solo.

I'm Turning Here

This may turn into a curmudgeon rant. Give me a minute and we'll see how it develops.

I hate, I absolutely despise, when people waiting at street corners to cross the street feel as though they must, they simply must, mind you, get as much of a head start on hiking across that street as possible. I don't see any other reason why they would crowd the roadway as much as they do.

As I approached Warren Avenue yesterday intending to turn right onto Trumbull, this nimrod stood more than on the corner. His toes were hanging off the cement and over the street. But here I am driving on Warren and needing the curb lane to turn, where I have the right of way mind you, yet if I get close enough to him to do that I risk brushing him back or clipping the guy with a bumper. I had to stay partially in traffic, blocking the second lane by about half, or I may have brushed against the man.

I should have been able to hit him, if there were any real justice in the world. Get the hell back away from the street when you aren't in the act of crossing it, Bullwinkle. That hacked me off.

Now, was I curmudgeon enough, or  nowhere nearly enough?

Be Still My Heart

I have just had news. I'm not sure whether it's bad news or good. But is no news bad news? Or no news good news? Or, well, I confuse those two.

Amazon Kindle emailed me this morning (email news is a kind of news, right?) telling me that I have royalties coming. Royalties from my book. Or more hopefully from my books, as at least two are available in ebook form. Will it be, as me old friends Cloyce would say, chicken or feathers? Have I made mucho grande sales lately, or will the report simply be a tease, a perfunctory statement that, hey Marty, three books sold in January? Inquiring minds, and by inquiring minds I mean my mind, want to know.

Give me a few minutes, and I'll let you know what dinner tonight will be.

Zeke's Answer for Everything

We all, well, many of us anyway, daydream of coming into big money. You know, winning the lottery or the like. Me Uncle John who I sometimes call Zeke was no different. He dreamed of winning the lottery. Indeed, he was quite prepared for it. He had in truth determined the very first thing he would do if he won. Seeing as folks like to hit you up for money if the thought you had a pile, Zeke said that if the big bucks came his way he would begin answering every single question No. Then he would answer the actual question.

"Hey John, how are today?"

"No. I'm doing great, thanks for asking."

"How about this fine weather we been having, John?"

"No. It's been pleasant, hasn't it? I might go golfing."

"What are doing for dinner today Zeke?"

"No. Well, I believe I have a taste for Mexican, now that you got me thinking about it."

Such a kidder. Until I realized he meant it.

Impatient Reader

It's gradually taking me over, but I'm kicking and screaming all the while. I don't want to be dragged into the 21st Century. I'm still not really living in the 20th.

A friend and I were talking about reading yesterday. We both agreed that we still prefer by far actual printed tomes over ebooks. But I must confess (okay, maybe not must, but saying it that way sounds so dramatic) that I am increasingly appreciating ebooks.

They don't take up physical room. Well, duh. Seeing as I've accumulated boxes upon boxes of books which are increasingly getting in my way, it's good when you can have something that doesn't do that. But what's more, ebooks can be had immediately rather than in two to five days, so that when I want to read something particular now, this very minute, I can. And they're cheaper, which plays well with the Scotsman in me.

I can still make fun of the tight Scotsman, right? I'm not stepping on any important toes there? I won't be cancelled over it?

Anyway, ebooks feed my need to have something in my possession right now, this very moment. And that does have a charm and satisfaction of its own. Still, 21st Century, you're not taking me without a fight because, well, I'm Scottish. At least a little bit.

Being Myself This Morning

For much of the last few years we've heard, ad infinitum if not also ad nauseum, that we need to 'be' ourselves. Notwithstanding that all this actually means is that certain people want me and you to accept certain ways of thought and living which they find agreeable and little more (a rather hollow, selfish, arbitrary and dictatorial mindset on its own terms, frankly, as you may notice that those same folks don't particularly want you to be true to you), it flies in the face of what I remember being taught in the generation before this one. Namely, that we ought to embrace change.

Those familiar with my rants over the years know that I have slight regard for that, uh, I suppose it might be an ideal, either. Those even more familiar with my rants over the years, and I do apologize and feel genuinely sorry for you, know that I don't take kindly to useless phrases and terms. Yet here today I'm giving you two more. Perhaps three.

Exhortations to be yourself have absolutely no meaning outside of context. Neither does any concept of change mean anything worthwhile without the asking and answering of various pertinent questions. 

Be yourself. Well, and I've asked this before, what if you're a jerk, indeed a rather supreme and self satisfied jerk? We tend to ignore that question, and understandably. We would never have urged Adolf Hitler to be himself and follow his dream, would we? So to the point: I'm not convinced that there's an entirely natural 'your self' for which you are, for which you exist. Aren't we always developing to some point? Do not people and events in our lives, quite obviously, direct us in one way or another? Isn't 'yourself' altered by these various forces as they happen upon you? 

Thus, as a practical reality, you seem never to stay the same. Few if any of us are the same at 60 as we were at 20. Things affect us whether we would care for them to or not. And that alters the self. Yet being yourself at its very core indicates that there's an eternal and unchanging self within you. What else can it mean, if we leave being yourself entirely to its own terms?

So it appears we do, and indeed arguably must, be changing. But from what into what? And why? We can't take that to mean we are simply evolving from one blob of cells and matter into another, can we? Don't we want to take shape, to form into something worthwhile? Why wouldn't we?

Of course, the key trouble here is that answering all those questions demands making judgments. Judgments about the good and the bad, the well and the ill. Yet - here he goes again - by modern parlance, we're not supposed to judge. This leaves me with one final issue this morning.

What the hell are we supposed to do then? 

The Green Monster

Being St. Patrick's Day, for obvious reasons I fished through my clothes this morning to find something green. I came across my 'Green Monster' t-shirt which I bought while at Fenway Park in Boston in 2016. And that leads me to what I want to say to you today: that sometimes I'm slow on the uptake.

Fenway Park features a 37 foot wall in left field. It is painted green. As such, for years Red Sox fans have affectionately referred to it as the Green Monster. Are you with me so far? Good.

Anyway, sports teams tend to have mascots, and Boston is no different. Traipsing around the stands and on the field during the pre-game and between innings and what not was a costumed, human sized figure in a Red Sox uniform. He looked like a full sized Elmo or Cookie Monster, the Sesame Street characters. But rather than red or blue, he appeared to be made of up green shag carpet. And I could not figure out who or what he was supposed to be.

Until about the fourth inning, when it finally dawned on me. He was the Green Monster.

At times I really need things explained to me. At least it gave me green to wear on St. Patrick's Day though. And no, I have not been drinking. I have been good about that. 

Whatever You Feel is Right for Cloyce

Me brother Phil and I routinely joke about how absurd it is when people say to do whatever you feel is right in a given situation. No; you should try your best to do what is right, feelings be damned. Now, I'm not trying to get all philosophical on you today, but you have to understand that principle as part of a years long running joke between he and I about feelings if you're to understand the following bit of humor.

Phil was working on an admittedly difficult repair yesterday for Cloyce's Plumbing. As he thought out loud about how to approach it, as though I might actually offer a useful hint, I finally said, "Do whatever you feel is right, bro," obviously referencing our running gag about the value of following your feelings.

"Well, I feel that there's no problem at all. So I'm going to take it back to Cloyce and charge him $100 for the inspection and analysis!" Phil said right back at me.

We laughed out loud. Cloyce didn't, ahem, feel it was all that funny though.

Nowhere Near Late

I woke up this morning, and my first thought was panic. 'Shoot! I missed my alarm',  I thought.

Only I hadn't missed it. I'm going to Indianapolis tomorrow, not today.

Of all the things that had never happened to me, that was the most profound never had happened. I can't even imagine why it happened or how it even managed to come into my mind. 

I knew quite well as I drifted off last night that Wednesday I had a sales trip and that today was only Tuesday. In fact I knew clearly my battle plan for today, mentally reviewing it as I lay in bed. Install a KC-8 shaft in a Model C, rewire a second Model C; there were two machines which needed new cables, and I wanted to email my next order to the factory. A straightforward work day.

Thank goodness today is just Tuesday. 

It is only Tuesday, right?

No Need To Imagine

I have said before that, while most things don't bother me too much these days, some things nevertheless instantly infuriate me. The Montreal Canadiens infuriated me, instantly, this past Saturday night. Before their hockey game against the Seattle Kraken, they played John Lennon's Imagine. They did it to show support for Ukraine in its fight against the Russian invasion.

Are you kidding me? There's a joke, a very bad one, in there somewhere, isn't there? Several jokes, I, uh, imagine.

You don't think so? Then allow me to explain.

To begin with, Lennon's song says 'Imagine there's no countries' before a sporting event featuring a team named, for all practical purposes, after a country. That's such delightful irony that it must have been intended as humor.

But let's continue to imagine no countries. There might not be a Ukraine in the next few weeks, so the joke must be that Soviet, er, Russian leader Putin is doing what he can to aid the ringing in of the ex-Beatle's dream world.

Imagine no religion. Well, Putin apparently has none, so there's another of John and Yoko's visions coming true.

Imagine nothing to live or die for. Well, I guess the whole war is Ukraine's fault then. The Ukrainian people dare to believe they have something worth living for, and therefore worth dying for. They deserve to be imagined out of existence. It fits the narrative of the song, does it not?

Imagine all the people living for today. Well, Putin certainly is, while Ukrainians die for today. Another unforced error by Kyiv.

Imagine no hell below us. Well, the Ukrainians don't have to do that. Hell is all around them.

Just so you do get it, and just because I'm mad enough that I want to be a total smartass right now, I'm quoting Lennon's song and offering explanations for the rank stupidly behind it as applied to real world events. Do you understand that?

Because if you don't, keep singing. An attack on your smug self righteousness will surely come upon you someday to explain it more powerfully.

Fourteen Nineteen

Everyone has a price. My price to make a 100 mile plus round trip on a Saturday morning is apparently $1419. Yep, One Thousand Four Hundred and Nineteen Dollars. That's a chunk of change, Ron.

I took a call around 5:30 Friday afternoon from a customer, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who made an offer I had trouble wrapping my head around. He said that if I drove to Temperance, Michigan and I brought him $1419 worth of sewer cables and tools on Saturday morning, he would give me money for them.

I had to shake my head at that to clear the cobwebs. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, Cloyce. You're telling me that if I bring you $1419 worth of product,"

"Yes," Cloyce interrupted.

"That you will pay me $1419 for it right there on the spot?" I finished incredulously.

"That's the idea, Marty," he assured me.

A big grin spread across my face. "Let's light this firecracker," I told Cloyce.

So apparently my price to make a two and a half hour drive on a cold Saturday morning is $1419. The sacrifices you make when you worship the almighty dollar.

Editor's Note: This is satire, a prolonged joke. Marty most certainly does not worship the almighty dollar. He does, however, hold it in high regard, to the point of selling things for profit.

Play Ball!

Well, I'll happily say it: I'm glad the baseball lockout is over. I don't even mind one certainly unintended outcome: the regular season will last a few more days into October. Oh joy, oh rapture!

I mean that too. While I will readily concede that those involved with the game at the major league level, the owners and the players (too many folks blame the owners solely for the issues within the sport, but the players are looking out for number one as well) adversely affect baseball as a sport, I am and will be a fan all my life. I try to avoid thinking about the troubles surrounding the game as only so much stuff and nonsense. It's a bane on professional sports on almost any level. I don't like what money and notoriety have done even to curling, quite frankly. Money alters things, even athletics. It's just that simple.

Give me baseball over football, basketball, hockey, or soccer any day. I get that some sports have clocks or the games might go on forever. Still, I regard that as a debit, a legitimate object for criticism. How many games are won in the last few seconds simply because the clock is allowed to stop an almost infinite number of times until the team with last possession of the ball can effectively sneak in a win anyway? (I'm looking at you, football). It lacks integrity; it is unsportsmanlike. 

But of timed games generally: you're ultimately only playing keep away. It would be better to play towards a certain number of points that against a clock.

All right, no more ranting in what I intended to be a positive column. Go baseball! I will be watching as soon as spring training begins this coming Friday, and will stay in the bubble all summer and, hopefully, into November.

Breakfast Duelists

Having made fantastic time on my trip to Electric Eel yesterday (Electric Eel: for all your drain and sewer cleaning needs) I decided that I could treat myself to a sit down if inexpensive breakfast. So as I approached the north end of Bellefontaine, Ohio and spied a Waffle House, I parked and went in to eat.

The waitress soon poured and then refilled my coffee before setting my meal in front of me. I dug in.

A couple of minutes later, I sensed her presence. I looked up. We locked eyes as I was about to consume a mouthful of eggs. I heard the eerie, echoing, haunting refrain from Hang 'em High. Her raised eyebrow clearly said, "Draw!"

I set the eggs back on my plate and pretended to check a message on my cell phone which lay on the table next to my breakfast. Her attention was then taken by a couple at a nearby booth.

Raising a piece of bacon to my lips apparently set her spider sense to tingling. As she turned to look at me, in a circular motion I set the bacon down and put the phone to my ear. I hoped she would think I had a call and the ringer was on silent. She went back to work.

A minute later she was behind the counter, staring at me. I put some jam on toast. The triangular end of it was nearly in my mouth; her mouth opened to speak. But I set the bread down, making as though to rub a crick in my neck. She picked up a glass, wiping it out with a towel. We eyed one another closely. This was becoming quite the war of wills.

The waitress turned to face the cook, to give him an order. This, I thought, was my chance. I shoved a forkful of hash browns into my mouth. Yet the Force was strong in this one. She wheeled around and fired at me, "So-how-is-your-breakfast-so-far?"

"Urr, ugh, ah, ehh, um-hmmm," I responded, giving a thumbs up as I desperately tried to chew and swallow that bite of food.

I paid my bill and left a decent gratuity. I tipped my hat to her as I left. Well played, milady. Well played.

The COVID Insult

On Facebook yesterday I came across a friend who said openly that he 'thanked everyone who put society ahead of themselves' during the COVID paranoia. I must say I take offense at that. 

For starters, all that really happened with COVID was that some individuals wielded power over other individuals for, essentially, their own, I will say it, nefarious purposes. Otherwise, why would some individuals have been able to go about as they pleased (looking at you lot, Governors Cuomo and Whitmer and Newsom, and, of course, the self proclaimed personification of science, Anthony Fauci) while businesses were shut down and rights trampled. I am not impressed by their 'concern' for 'society'. Their concern was for power, nothing more.

Then too, such blithe comments as my good friend made inherently declare that folks such as yours truly don't care a fig about society. That's the real insult, quite frankly. Because myself and many of my peers thought the reaction to COVID overblown, then obviously we wanted people to suffer. We wanted Grandma dead. If that's not ham fisted arrogance I don't know what is. It deserves the rejoinder...well, I won't enunciate it. But you know the one I mean.

Third, I do not believe that society is greater than the individual. Indeed I quite heartily believe the converse: the individual is more important than society. Without good and reliably independent people we have no worthwhile society. To be sure, there are exceptions, times when the nation must be put ahead of the person. The Ukrainians are dealing with precisely that. But almost always, the person trumps the collective. His needs are almost always more important than 'society's', whatever you mean by that.

I am not and never have been a believer is President Kennedy's 'ask not what your country can do for you' cant. I think I speak for many, and that indeed I speak for the greater part of morality, when I say that the most important thing my country can do for me is to leave me the hell alone to my own legitimate business. If people can take care of themselves, the country will be well taken care of by them.

Lucky Number?

Math, a dear friend of mine who interestingly happens to be a math teacher, says, is life. I don't doubt it. When the numbers in the checkbook (does anyone use one of those anymore?) don't add up, it's a problem. But this is more about numbers than full on mathematics (does anyone use the full word anymore?). 

A twice recurrent number in my life is 1104. When you pronounce it eleven-oh-four it rolls nicely off the tongue. It was the address of the house me Pops grew up in and the number of me son's scout troop. That is at least kind of serendipitous, isn't it?

Me Uncle John whom I call Zeke loved the old house. So did me Pops, as I'm quite sure did the rest of their siblings. Zeke used to say if he had the money he'd rebuilt it precisely to spec. 

Me Grandparents moved out of it in 1965. I remember being there as a small boy. As the second oldest grandchild there likely aren't many of us on my tier of the family that also remember it. It was huge. I recall being in the back yard playing with the dog they had at the time, and being in the basement with me Pops and his brothers as they shot pool. 

Then me son Frank ends up making Eagle Scout through Boy Scout Troop 1104. I don't know if Pops realized that, but I have to imagine he did. Some numbers just stick with us and I have the distinct impression 1104 did with him. 

There's other numbers which mean a lot to me but that's the only one which appears prominently in my life two times. I may play the lottery with it today. Third time's a charm?

Michael's Story

In the unending pursuit of self promoting my own books, let me say a word or two today about my third currently available novel, Michael's Story.

Let me immediately establish that it's a story about a man named Michael. If it were about a man named Ron I would have called it Ron's Story (and believe me there is quite a story to tell about Ron, but that's for another time). 

Okay, enough playful banter. Time to get serious.

Michael's Story is a prequel to my first book, A Subtle Armageddon. But I decided to experiment with a new approach in Michael's Story: dialogue. You see, there isn't much conversation in A Subtle Armageddon. It mostly just describes one last man alone in a dystopic future. With Michael, I'm out to tell about how that future came to develop. I hope that Michael's tale is able to fill in the blanks, so to speak, left to the imagination in ASA. I hope too that it engages the reader by giving him or her several characters with which to sympathize.

So, playful banter again aside (I mean it this time) Michael's Story is more a straightforward novel. I hope you might be interested enough to check it out.

An Old Green Seat

At one time Detroit's Tiger Stadium, the local baseball park from 1896 until 1999, had what were called box seats. They were actually individual padded chairs rather than a connected series of seats as most other ballpark seating was at the time (well, even now in most stadiums and arenas I suppose). They were the most expensive seats in the park, and I never sat in one during a game. But now I can.

I bought one those beauties from a sports memorabilia dealer. What do you think?

Now I can sit in a box seat anytime I want to, while watching any game I want to. Ain't life grand?

It dates from 1917 when the place was called Navin Field, after then owner Frank Navin. I hope I look that good after 105 years of wear.

Kung Fu Philosophy

Will worry change the future?

- Kwai Chang Kane

Who says TV isn't educational? It seems that everyone's favorite kung fu master has hit the nail on the head.

Master Kane's words have come back to me of late. The thing is, I can't remember anything else about the episode where he offered those words of wisdom. But I recall the quote exactly. Someone was fretting so bad that they couldn't function in the present.

We all worry. We all fret. That's okay, if it inspires us towards better efforts. But when worry takes a life of its own, well, remember that it does not affect what is unwritten. At least, not positively.

Memories of the State Fair Coliseum

The Shrine Circus is here at the Coliseum! The Shrine Circus is here!

If you're singing that jingle in your head as you read it, then you're old enough to remember the Michigan State Fair Coliseum in Detroit. I happened by it yesterday, catching the progress of its deconstruction. The picture above is of the now open north end of the stadium.

A lot of great memories came into my mind. We took the kids to the Shrine Circus there two or three times as I recall. During the Michigan State Fair, we would watch the equestrian competitions in it. My son Charlie and I saw ZZ Top at that old barn in 2005; it was great to see and hear them live in a small venue. When I was 10 me Grandpa Joe took me to a rodeo there. Great seats too; we were right by the gate where the cowboys were released riding the bucking broncos. 

Ah well. Time marches on. They are saving the front facing to use as a picnic area, which is cool. I'll put a picture of that at the end here.

3 O'clock Non-meeting

I know very well that me Grandpa Joe would lose his temper too quickly. But damn, some days I understand why he did.

A customer called me yesterday asking about a part, which I have in stock. Upon telling him that the guy asked, "Will you be in your shop around three o'clock?" 

It was not an unfair question. As we do route sales as well as pickup and delivery, we don't really have set hours these days. "I plan on it, but if you're telling me you're coming at three I'll make sure to be here then."

"That's just it, Cosgriff. I'm busy, and I don't where I'll be at three."

In my mind, I hit the ceiling. I was instantly, mentally infuriated. "Why the hell are you asking me if I'll be available at three if you don't know you'll be able to come at three?" Instead I replied through gritted teeth, "Just call me when you're on your way."

I mean, really. You're asking me to commit to a time you can't commit too? 

Sometimes Joe was right to lose his temper. I think sometimes we all are.

44 Years

For whatever reason, and who knows why such things suddenly pop into your mind, it hit me that on March 3, 1978, my senior class trip began. We went to Toronto for the weekend, 44 years ago today.

Just another thing to make a guy feel old. But seriously, by what rhyme and reason would I remember something like that straight out of the blue? It's not as though I thought a lot about it over the years. It was a simple class trip. Nothing exciting happened at all. Then here I am sitting in front of my computer today and - bam - "Hey Marty, 44 years ago today was your Senior class trip," says my mind.

I took a minute to dredge up a calendar for March 1978, and March 3 that year being a Friday, it makes sense that this is its anniversary. Upon thought I recall we left on a Friday and it was the first weekend in March. 

If only I could remember where I buried that million dollars in unmarked bills...

Ash Wednesday 2022

Lent begins today for a world which didn't feel so dangerous a scant few days ago as it does this morning. This after the travesty that was COVID, which vexed us for a couple years. Yet here we are.

We must remember there is nothing new under the Sun. As the world spins her intrigue we must look past all of it, to remind ourselves that part of the lack of newness is the constant need for personal revival. The dawning of Lent offers us the occasion to be introspective, to recall that if we are to have a better world we need to become better people. As Jordan Petersen says, if your own house isn't in order you cannot better order the world, which is a decidedly larger home than your own. And much less manageable than your person.

Lent gives us the opportunity to manage our person better. Ideally, at the end of it we will be better persons. If we succeed in that, we will have done our small part in making a better world. Get that snowball rolling, and who knows what great good can come of ourselves, of those near and dear to us, and, no doubt in my mind, of the union of nations.

I figure it's worth the risk of forty days personal reflection.

Interpretive Joke (Perhaps too easy)

Lent begins tomorrow. Today is Fat Tuesday.

Don't worry, I have it covered.

Rim. Shot.