It Could Be Worse

"So that's it, Doctor? I only have six months to live?"

"I'm afraid so," the doctor replied. "Unless..."

"Yes?" The patient asked hopefully. "Unless what?"

The doctor sighed. "You could be hit by a bus or something."

Have a great day everybody!

Mind. Blown.

While at a customer's place in Indiana yesterday I came across a profoundly interesting vehicle. He had a small Subaru pickup truck which he sometimes used for service calls. 

It was little; smaller than a Ford Ranger I would say. In my excitement I neglected to ask how old it was, although it's apparently fairly old as he had an Indiana Historic Vehicle license plate on it. But that wasn't what impressed me most. Oh, no no no.

This tiny truck had the steering wheel on the right, what we would call the passenger side. But more - get this, get this, get this - it had a manual transmission.

Okay, that in itself is no big deal. Dial down your excitement, Marty. But as the pickup was right wheel drive that meant you had to shift with your left hand. I was, quite frankly, overly taken in by that. I can drive a stick, but never thought about having to shift left-handed. I seriously considered asking the man if I could take it for a spin simply to get an idea what it felt like. 

"It shifts just the same, has the same pattern, same left foot clutch," he had explained to me. Yeah, but you had to manipulate the shifter left handed. That makes, like, all the difference in the world, doesn't it? 

In a few weeks I have to return a couple machines of his which I brought back to Detroit for repair. I might just ask about that drive then.

Road Worthy

I have always liked how Canadians, or at least those Canadians in Ontario, often call their roads 'lines'. There's Huron Line, Michigan Line  (an appeal to their nearby friends, maybe?) and my personal favorite, Chalk Line. Yes, it exists.

But the U.S. has its share of interestingly named byways. In southern Indiana yesterday I saw Sample Road. What, if we like the sample we can get an entire road?

Then there was Washboard Road. I had no desire to check it out because, you know, a washboard road is stereotypically so rutted and pitted (like an old fashioned washboard, get it?) that going ten miles per hour rattles your teeth so bad it loosens your fillings. Perhaps it was just truth in advertising though.

Uh, um, that's all I got today. Thanks for reading!

Righteous Anger

Since I seem to be going on about my work lately - why stop when you're on a roll? - let me tell you about a very safe repair that yet managed to set me off yesterday.

I worked on anchoring a cable inside a drain snake for more than a hour Tuesday morning, and so help me if I could get it done. It was something I have done dozens, maybe even a couple hundred times in my life, generally in a matter of minutes, yet that dadburn anchor would not go into place. Despite trying all the tricks that I knew, and you do learn a lot of different approaches even for the same job over time as sometimes one way works, sometimes another, it was total frustration. A complete no-go. I could not get that anchor in place. I finally decided the hell with it and went home for a sandwich and cup of coffee.

After lunch I went back to the old barn still stewing over that bloody miserable repair. But it had to get done, so I might as well get right back at it, you know? And that stupid little so-and-so absolutely popped smack into place. I was done in five minutes.

That actually upset me all the more. I was madder than the proverbial old wet hen. Why in the world did it not go so very easily before? How had I offended the drain snake gods in the morning, that they were nevertheless miraculously appeased by 12:30? Was someone yanking my chain? I had to remind myself, albeit through clenched teeth, that it was a good thing the job was done. Wasn't that what I wanted?

Well, yes. At Ten AM. By early afternoon I had planned on being three repairs or so beyond that anchor, to have it tease me like that. 

I'm still mad. But I'll let it go eventually. Some day.

The Trouble With Stupid

Do you remember the other day when I spoke about doing stupid things? If not, refresh yourself here: 

Marty being stupid 

For those who don't want to give me the additional page views by clicking on that link, I was talking about how I openly decided to do something very stupid one day last week: I cut through a weld with a high speed saw. It was something I should not have done once.

I did it three more times yesterday.

The problem with stupid is that if you do it one time and all goes well, it's easy to do it again. And a third time. And a fourth. See, you get comfortable with stupid. You and stupid come to terms. You make a treaty with stupid which you know in your heart stupid will break one day. That's how and why stupid things eventually physically hurt you.

By the time I was making my way through that fourth weld I had almost forgotten the hazard of what I was doing. Then I saw, er, realized that the knuckles of my left hand were within about 3/4 of an inch of the high speed wheel as I held the metal I was cutting through. That knowledge having come upon me, I nearly jerked my hand away, which is precisely what you do not want to do. Sudden motion is when serious injury happens.

Steeling my nerves, I finished that last cut. I fully intend not to do such a thing again. I don't think I'm all that far into the comfort zone with stupid. But time will tell.

Getting Her Share

One of the best things about having gotten beyond COVID - we are beyond COVID, aren't we? - is that the fast food restaurants are reopening their dining rooms. For me and me Mom, this means that on our Sunday excursions we can actually sit comfortably at a booth or a table and eat our cheeseburgers. It sure beats uncomfortably having lunch with our food on our laps or the dashboard and with napkins everywhere. Or me negotiating bites around the steering wheel.

It also lets Mom refill her Diet Pepsi. 

Nearly all McDonalds and Burger Kings and whatnot offer soda fountains outside of the counter so that customers can get refills easily. That is a perk of which me Mom takes full advantage. 

When we had finished eating yesterday and I had thrown our trash away (another convenience of eating in the restaurant) she said, "I want to fill my pop." It was no problem of course, as I knew she'd want to as we left.

What I did not expect was how much she drank as we approached the soda fountain. She took the straw of her drink in her mouth and sucked down nearly half the contents. She had hardly touched it when we were actually eating our lunch. I was positively pie eyed in astonishment as I watched her. You could see the top line of her pop dropping inside the cup.

That old woman was going to get her fair share of Diet Pepsi. And, hey, why not? That's why the machines are there, right?

The More Things Change

While watching my Detroit Tigers yesterday afternoon - the home team is always my team, and why not? - I noticed that the starting pitcher, Tarik Skubal, wore number 29. My first thought was, honestly, 'but Mickey Lolich is 29'. It took a moment to remind myself that that great Tiger lefty was number 29. It's not exclusively Mickey's marker.

I thought that knowing others have worn the number since Lolich hung up his spikes; Nate Robertson, another Tiger southpaw, comes to mind. Yet because Lolich wore it when I was a young Tiger fan, as they were becoming my team, he will always be #29. Exactly like #24 will always be Mickey Stanley. Nothing personal and no offense, Miguel Cabrera. You are indeed one of the all time greats. No Detroit Tiger will wear number 24 after you. It's just that there was a 24 before you, that's all.

I'm not the only one, am I? It's as though who we grew up with are impressed into our being. I think that's just how our minds work, don't you?

Tut Tut

The things you remember when you're reminded.

I read yesterday where Steve Martin's King Tut song debuted on Saturday Night Live on my birthday in 1978. I recalled watching it once I remembered it.

That's cool. And it makes sense, right? I forgot until my memory was jogged. No mere power of suggestion by any means!

It Wouldn't Stop Joe

God has a special Providence for fools, children, and the United States of America.

- attributed to Otto von Bismarck, first Chancellor of unified Germany

Should you pray for God's help when you're about to do something really, really stupid? I don't mean stupid accidentally or incidentally. I mean when you're actively and willfully planning to do something dumb. Very dumb, fantastically ill advised in fact. Planning to do exactly the kind of thing every ounce of reason says you should not do.

I needed a cable fitting for a repair yesterday and did not have a new one. So I either had to order one and wait a couple weeks to finish the repair, or use the lone one I actually already had. The trouble was, the one I had was welded onto the end of an old cable. That meant that for me to use it I had to cut through the weld with a high speed saw. I won't bore you with the details. But trust me, the very idea was far from smart. I had visions of lopping off a finger. The pointer on my left hand was even experiencing pre-injury phantom pains.

'Joe would do it', I said to myself, referring to me Grandpa Joe, who frequently took silly chances in life. Obviously that didn't really help my argument, as those of you who knew Joe would agree. Still, I thought, if I don't cut the weld and use the fitting the machine will be in the way for several more days and we don't have much room to work lately, it being so busy. I decided to do it. 

Rounding up whatever protective equipment I had on hand at the Shop, I prepared for the task. There wasn't much; Joe wasn't big on trifles such as preventing grievous bodily harm (or death) and I never actually followed up with the institution of better safety protocols. Still, I put on what I had and said a prayer (I honestly and sincerely did) to God for my safety. You know, like to not sever my jugular vein.

I managed the job safely, being very slow and deliberate. I then finished the repair. I did also take a minute to thank God afterwards for having steadied my hand and keeping me safe. I suspect, however, that my Guardian Angel is on his third pint.

Still a Favorite

I still get tickled over this story.

My oldest son is a veteran, and I am very proud of him for that. And his service has also given me a pulling the leg on people opportunity which I get a lot of miles on.

You see, he was a prison guard. That meant of course that he spent over a year stationed at Fort Leavenworth, site of the US military's largest prison. Most folks think only of that when they think of the place.

So the joke is this. Friends would come up to me and say, "So I hear you're son's in the Army."

"Yep," I'd answer plainly.

"Where's he at?"

I would simply say, "Leavenworth."

This would always be followed by a pause as they processed the information. Eventually they would ask, sheepishly, "Leavenworth?" And I would answer, "Yep. Couldn't be more proud of the boy."

There would be another pause as they tried to think what to say next. But after letting them hang for a few seconds I would say, "He's a prison guard. He's on the right side of the bars." It's funny how much relief they showed when I would finally admit whole story. Many of them would audibly sigh when I let the cat out of the bag.

Have I properly thanked you son, for feeding my impish sense of humor?

Roof Shot

I knew that day twenty five years ago now would be a cool one the moment I entered old Tiger Stadium with my sons in tow. I just had a feeling.

April 20, 1997 was a Sunday, two days before my birthday. At nearly the last minute I decided to go to the baseball game as a self indulgent present. When I say last minute I mean it; I made the decision maybe 45 minutes before the first pitch. But when you only live a mile from the stadium it's no big deal.

We drove down and parked right across the street from the bleacher entrance. We bought tickets and went to sit in the upper deck in right center. 

The boys were excited because the in house camera showed them on the center field scoreboard. I was excited because in the second inning Oakland's Mark McGwire cleared the left field roof with a home run. He was the fourth and last player to do that in Tiger Stadium history.

It was the only opposition homer I ever rooted for. Off the bat I could tell McGwire really got hold of the pitch. "That's a roof shot!" I yelled, and then began screaming "Go! Go! Go!" It hit the facing of the roof once, then bounded over and out of the park almost in slow motion.

I know McGwire's career has since been tainted by steroid use. But man, that was one magnificent home run regardless. Majestic. A true thing of beauty for a baseball fan. And me and the boys had catbird seats for it.

The Last Shall be First

Anyone of you who grew up in a large or at least relatively large family knew that Mom, when she was upset, would sometimes go through the entire litany of children's names until she came to the one she was really mad at, right? Well, except for Ron's family. Then it was always ''Ron! Get in here!" right away. Ron's mom didn't have to think about that one.

Anyway, it did have the effect of making every one of my siblings listen sharply. If you weren't the last one  named you were in the clear. "Bill! Patrick! Phil! Ed! Get in here right now!" meant that Ed was in for it but everyone else was in the clear.

It was the dreaded "Bill! Phil! Patrick! Marty!" which meant, dang it. I was the one who set her off.

Not that I ever actually experienced that of course. But man, I did feel sorry for every one of my brothers from time to time.

Tax Day 2022

There are points which I will admit that I love to belabor. One of them is quite appropriate for today. Today is income tax day, when we're supposed to have paid our income taxes for the previous year. And as I always will assert, I will always shout to the high heavens, income taxes are immoral. Period.

I'm not so libertarian as to argue that all taxation is theft. But the income tax is. Basically, the majority of Americans are saying that because person y made x amount of money he must hand some of it to the rest of us to spend however we want. If that's not theft I don't know what is.

Don't argue, but democracy! If democracy voted that you had to hand over your house or car would you have to? Of course not. Why so with your money?

The government can get cash from sales taxes and user fees, bond sales, and even import taxes. But how could it pay for all it's paying for now? It couldn't, I readily admit. Government would have to get farther out of our lives, which would be a great moral good. Or have you not noticed the wonderful job it has done on inflation, gas prices, poverty, education, or dozens of other things?

I will only allow this: pay your income taxes, but only because the alternative - fines and jail - are worse for you. In short, your payment of income taxes is predicated on a threat to life if not limb. Exactly how more honest thieves act.

Easter 2022

On this Easter morning, I am reminded that this great Holy Day seems to play second fiddle to the other greatest Christian feast, Christmas. Not that Christmas is a lowly event, either; far from it! Yet I cannot help but conclude, in reconciling the levels of attention paid to each, that we ought to focus more of our efforts, if even only slightly, on Easter.

I do not pretend to be a theologian, but as wonderful as December 25th is, it is something of a precursor to our salvation: Christ comes into the world as all the rest of us have, as a child. His is the promise: for God so loved the world that He sent His only Son for our redemption. Christmas is hope. The celebration of it demonstrates trust in the future which Our Lord has set before us.

Easter fulfills that hope and promise. Though we grieve so deeply and so rightly at the misery and death which Christ took upon Himself for us, it is not His Death but His glorious Resurrection which redeems us. Who else has come back from the dead? Who else has defeated that last obstacle to secure the possibility of our everlasting joy?

So while I attempt to tread lightly in making such comparisons, I have to believe that Easter should be felt more profoundly than any other Christian celebration. He is Risen. Our Heavenly destiny is opened to us should we accept. Let us rise with Him to the level for which we were created, made possible by His love for us. Made possible through His Easter Day.

Contingency Plan

By Spring, I tell people that if the Shop door is open, we're there. That may sound silly, but we keep the door closed in the winter because otherwise the heat will get out. Although the Shop was once a barn, we weren't born in one.

I was explaining that to a customer earlier this week. "All right Cosgriff, if I see the door open, I'll come in."

"Well, be careful. I suppose there's always the chance we might have had a break in," I cautioned half in jest.

"Then I'll call 911 for you, Cosgriff."

I thanked him. Why not?

The Big If

Good Friday. The day when Christ was crucified. It isn't a big deal if he were only a scalawag or criminal. It really isn't even a big deal if He were simply a common man who was a bit delusional. He would be just another unfortunate soul who bad men put to death.

But what if He is what he says he is? What if He is the Son of God? What if He actually did come to Earth to save us? What if salvation, an eternity of happiness and bliss, really came from His act?

It's hard for me to argue that He wasn't exactly who He said he was. If He were a criminal, then what crimes did He commit, as Pilate asked. If He were insane, how can we trust anything He says, even the stuff about being good to one another? Such would only incidentally be true if He were crazy. 

What if he were simply lying about being the key to salvation? He certainly didn't back down even under threat of death, which is exactly what should be expected of a charlatan.

It leaves the question: what if He was indeed who He said he was? What if He could do what He promised He could?

The big If. I urge you on this Good Friday 2022 to ask yourself if and to answer honestly. Because if He is who He says He is, we have a lot to answer for. Thankfully, He has a lot of forgiveness to give out. 

True Freedom

I hope this doesn't come across as too deep, because I don't believe it is. But in my reading I have come across an idea about human freedom which I had never heard before, and dearly wish I had heard it eons ago. If it is correct, and I argue that it is, it cuts to the very heart of the problems we have in the world, not just today, but essentially for all of human history.

Simply put, real freedom is not personal autonomy. It is not the right and ability to do what is right for you, whatever that means and whatever it entails. True freedom is the right to do what is objectively right. 

That is a fantastic little statement, if I do say so myself. It takes off the table any and all ideas that the individual person, or by extension society, has the right to determine what is right. If we are free it means we are free to do what is right, to do what is good for ourselves and those around us, and not whatever we please based on our collective psychology or personal preference. True freedom would never allow error. It has too much dignity to do that.

The secular world doesn't like that idea because it naturally involves judgment. We ain't s'posed to do that. Never mind that we can and must judge. Must I point out that saying 'don't judge' is, in a very real and tangible way, a judgment? Saying we cannot judge is a self-contradiction. It is, quite frankly, nonsense.

In truth no one has the freedom to do wrong. They may indeed do wrong as a result of free will. We may even have to tolerate certain poor actions for various practical reasons. But no one is in any rational philosophic sense right to do wrong. It is beyond true human freedom, which is the right to act rightly. And only that.

Universally Nonuniversal

I'm pretty good at holding my temper. But damn, that can be a challenge some days.

I spoke to a customer yesterday, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who wanted to come by and have one of those 'universal' foot pedals installed on his machine. A foot pedal is a common way to activate your drain snake.

"There is no universal foot pedal, Cloyce," I informed him. "There is no one style of foot pedal which works on every drain snake out there. But you can bring your machine down and I'll see what I can do."

"Oh no, Cosgriff, I'm holding one of those universal foot pedals in my hand right now. I just need you to install it."

This is a prime example of where I have trouble holding my temper. Truth be told, I want to lose it in situations like that. Still, you know, maturity and crap. "You can bring it with you Cloyce, and there is some interchangeability among foot pedals. But until I see it I can't promise you I can install it, at least not right away," I replied.

"You'll figure out something Cosgriff." Well, I ought not have to figure something out if it's universal, Cloyce.

His pedal didn't work on his machine without my having to change the air diaphragm switch which it was supposed to engage with. But that's universal parts for ya, Cloyce.

Perchance to Dream

I am not one to engage in new or unusual cuisine. Odd or interesting gastronomical delights do not delight me. So why was I dreaming of bizarre foods last night?

I don't remember much of what was on the menu. We do tend to forget dreams, and that's generally just as well. But one bizarre food I distinctly recall was given me by, of all people, me brother Patrick, a man of limited and quite sharply defined tastes. It was a sandwich of vanilla wafers, mayonnaise, melted cheese, peanut butter (a super thick layer), and a chicken nugget. Or perhaps it was a fish nugget, I'm not sure. You know how dreams have that unreal quality, right?

Still, it was one of those dreams which was so real I could almost taste the food. I am just as glad I could not. Still, if I find Patrick eating such a sandwich today, I will begin doing all I can to wake myself up.

Education and Politics

I've always wondered why one of the great libertarian leaders of our early republic, one who did not trust government power, was so willing to give government power and authority to schools. Thomas Jefferson, I don't understand you there.

Where you so rightly distrusted government power generally, why did you trust it with such autocratic institutions as schools? Could you not guess that they, under government control, would eventually do exactly what they do to kids today: indoctrinate rather than educate?

Just my two cents on the matter. But the trouble with education is precisely that it's centralized under political authority. In the long run that's bound to harm our freedom of thought. It boggles my mind that people don't see that.

Win or What?

As the playoffs for both basketball and hockey approach, so too do the commercials for their respective playoffs. They include all the usual catchphrases such as, 'Win or go home!'

But don't you go home even after you win? 

Just asking. Uh, for a friend. That's what I'm supposed to say, right?

Masters Weekend

Editor's note: this is a reprint of a favorite article of mine. Uncle John liked the Masters and I liked golfing with him. Think we got time for a quick nine, Zeke?

The Masters and John Cosgriff

I don't watch golf very often. But I always watch the Masters. Although I do find that I like the game more and more as I grow older, there's a part of me which still doesn't really see the allure. Hitting a small ball hundreds of yards into a cup maybe twice the size of that ball just doesn't seem a very entertaining way to spend an afternoon. Still, I find that golf and I have a history. Lately that's been played out through 'swing and sweeps', combined golf and curling tournaments. They're great fun, especially if, as a curler (as I am) it gets you two more curling games per season. I do look forward to them.

But more than that. My father's youngest brother, my Uncle John, liked to golf. He always bet something or other with a coworker on the outcome of the Masters. He and his boss would pick five guys alternately, and whoever had the winner won a sleeve of balls. I'm not sure who won most often. But I know my uncle was always proud of his picks.

I golfed with him many times years ago, when he was young and I was younger. We'd go out for nine holes after work many a summer's day. Those evenings were always good fun. If I could relive just one...we would joke and laugh, and simply enjoy the quiet and the game.

He was a lefty. That was fairly rare in golf at the time. His swing seemed unusual even to me, but for a duffer he was okay. I scored my only birdie to this date while golfing with him. The Eighth hole at Dearborn Hills, a 170 yard par 3, a Thursday night in an August of days gone by. I made the green off the tee with a four iron, and hit a 25 foot putt which ran hard left to right right into the cup. I made him sign the scorecard to attest that I had birdied. He remarked, "No one will believe us, because I'm family". It was lightly drizzling as he signed the card under the glare of my car's headlight after that round. I still see him doing it. Why do such things stay in our memories? But when he died, that image popped into my head. I then dug up the scorecard and the ball that I birdied with, just to see his signature.

When he had decided he was through with golf he gave me his left handed clubs. Several times I played rounds with them. If you have any idea how poorly I golf, you would know that it hardly mattered from which side of the tee I would address the ball. Might as well play lefty sometimes just for kicks.

I kept those clubs for years. Then I bought a better-than-mine set of used right handed clubs (used better than I ever will), and decided to sell Uncle John's clubs at a yard sale. Who needs three sets of clubs, especially opposite sided ones, right? 

A young left handed guy came around and looked them over. He practiced swung a few of them, decided that he wanted to golf enough that he ought to have his own clubs, and paid for them.

I watched him walk away, dragging Uncle John's clubs behind him on the cart which went with the deal. I felt a deep pang of remorse as the fella disappeared with his new found treasure.

I sincerely hope he has golfed well with them. And I wish I still had those clubs.

Opossum Wars

Are they good or bad? Dangerous or not? Damned if I know.

I saw this morning for about the umpteenth (how many is umpteenth anyway?) time a meme which basically asserted that opossum are the saviors of the world. They eat radioactive decay, and appear to be our neighborhood John Rambo, actively destroying all dangerous encroachers and keeping us safe from sure destruction at the hand of subversive infiltrators. O-kay.

Then there are memes which say very nearly the exact opposite. Those cute little rodents are the bane of humanity who will make a rightly scared population pray for the salvation of nuclear holocaust. The disease ridden little furrowers will give you every imaginable illness. Indeed if they bite you they will infuse their deadly poisons into your very DNA, even the DNA of your children who are already born. Yikes!

The truth is, I don't know. I don't really care. If they'll leave me alone I'll leave them alone. It's just interesting to see the lengths supporters and detractors of opossum will go to to demonize their opponents while heaping praise upon themselves. You'd think it was politics, for crying out loud.

I Swear, North Carolina

It was a good day playing license plate bingo yesterday. I saw 35 states and 6 Canadian Provinces. One I distinctly remember was North Carolina, because I swore at it.

I don't mean any offense to my North Carolina friends and family of course. But here I was, traveling northbound on I-465, the beltway freeway which circles Indianapolis, Indiana, in the far left lane because my exit was coming up, well, on the left. I was doing about 65 or so. It was well over the posted limit but I was keeping up with traffic flow as you're supposed to, and I had to be there for my exit.

It was raining but not a torrential downfall when North Carolina leaps in front of me. I don't mind that, really. Cars, though not typically from North Carolina, often enough jump into the lane ahead of me when I'm driving. But then this one brakes suddenly, causing me and however many folks behind to brake suddenly. North Carolina slowed to under 40 miles per hour in the fast lane of Interstate 465 in slippery road conditions. It makes your body seize up, anticipating that either you're going to hit them or someone else will hit you from behind.

What made matters worse was that, in being able to get around the car, I saw the two passengers clearly looking at their cell phones, pointing and arguing about something (I assume directions, but whatever) as they drove. As I got back in the lane (remember my exit approached) North Carolina casually slipped across five lanes of traffic to the far right. 

Talk about an accident waiting to happen. I think I was within my rights to swear at North Carolina. But only the car, not the state. I promise.

Keys

How many of you have old keys hanging around? Maybe they're on your key ring, or perhaps in your junk drawer. At the Shop, we have keys hanging on nails right inside the office door, most of which haven't been used in ages. 

Some are the keys to cars which have long met the compactor.  I know that one key is for the last flatbed truck we had for delivering welders. That truck's been gone 30 years. We also still have the key from a 1961 Ford delivery truck. Smaller keys are old shop locks for padlocks which are who knows where. Most of them have not been touched since well before Pops died, and he's been gone coming up on nine years.

Why don't we get rid of them? I dunno. It's habit to have them there I suppose. One key is attached to a key ring which has the baby from the first Incredibles cartoon. That's, what, 2004? The baby is no longer bald but has a nice head of dust hair. It's to be expected I suppose, after hanging inside the doorway for close to 18 years now.

Some of those keys might even fit locks we still have if we were to try and find them. I'm not fired up to find out though. I suspect me kids when clearing out the old barn hopefully way, way into the future, will wonder why the hell we kept them, and just toss them out. So it goes.

Talking to Myself

Yesterday, working alone at the Shop, I noticed that the charge on my phone was low. I put it on the charger in the office and went back to work.

A little while later I heard a phone ring. 'Ah, someone's phone is ringing', I thought to myself.

"Are you going to answer it?" a voice in my head asked.

"What? Why?' I asked back.

"Because it's ringing."

"Yeah?"

"A phone is ringing. In the Shop. Where you are working alone."

"Yeah?" I asked again, perturbed.

"You're alone in the Shop. It's your phone ringing," I replied pointedly.

"Oh. It's my phone ringing, from the charger in the office."

I gave myself a Gibbs slap.

Twisted Golf

If you aren't at least a modest golf fan, this probably will mean nothing to you. So it goes. To even only a moderate golf fan such as myself, though, I'm stupefied.

While watching the Texas Open this past weekend I saw something I had never seen before: a sand trap smack in the middle of the putting green. What sick, twisted fiend would do such a thing?

Sand traps are the bane of many a golfer. Still, I get them in the context of the game: they make it more challenging. They make you make your shots; if you hit the ball into the trap, you hit poorly.

But you're supposed to hit the green. The game is designed for you to make the green. That's where the hole is after all, the place where the adventure ends. That you might get punished for that is simply wrong. It's what you would find on Satan's back nine. Or front nine more likely, to clue you in on whatever additional horrors which must surely come after the hellish monstrosity of a sand trap on a putting surface.

Traps on greens just ain't right, folks.

A Patrick Joke

I'm not a speed demon (well, not much of one) but it does bug me when people don't do the speed limit.

Driving along Canfield Avenue in Detroit yesterday with me Mom and me brother Patrick in the van, I was irritated at the two vehicles in the front of me going 15 in a 25 zone. "Oh come on, folks. The speed limit isn't 15 here!" I complained out loud.

"Then why are you doing it?" Patrick responded from the back seat.

I laughed out loud. Well done, brother, although I still think the cars in front if me could have gotten a move on.

Here's Another One

Useless words and phrases: I do go on about them. On that note here's another: prequalified.

We all have, or at least many of us have, gotten offers in the mail which boldly proclaim that we are prequalified to apply for a credit card, or a loan, or a mortgage, or whatever. But what does that really mean?

It means that we can fill out an application for a credit card, or a loan, or a mortgage, or whatever.

But, ahem, can't we do that anyway? Can't we apply no matter what status the prequalify people deign to bestow upon us? I suppose that if you can't write, maybe you can't apply. Yet you might also get someone else to fill out the form for you. So there, Marty's run rings around even that objection.

Prequalified, bah. Humbug. You are prequalified to toss the word prequalified onto the prequalified junk pile. I have every confidence you can do it. 

Randomly random

If as many people show up at the Shop today as are supposed to, I'll be able to retire by late this afternoon. I fully expect to have to work Monday though. 

MLB should have had one set of baseball games under its belt this morning. Oh well. We'll have extra baseball in October, so I'm down with it. And I have tickets on my phone (I'll never get used to such modern amenities) for a game in June, so I'm ahead of the curve there.

Seems awfully dark for 5:30 in the morning. But what should I have expected, eh?

April Fools Day and I got nothing. Just another day then. Make it good, friends.