2022 began in earnest on January 1st. January led to February, on whose heels came March.
April showers did, as I recall, bring May flowers. June appeared to end the first half of the year.
July came and led to August, which stood aside gracefully for September.
October brought with it Autumn, November continued the pace, and December brought 2022 all together.
There you have it: the year in review. I expect much the same on 2023.
It was an unusual sight. As I came home from Midnight Mass in the wee hours of Christmas morning, the snow falling lightly to the ground, the moon shadowing the landscape, something appeared which I never expected to see even on such a glorious day of the year.
It made its way across Forest Avenue as I approached. I could tell by how it moved that it was uncommon for this day and age. Yet I had to follow it as it trod gently down an alley.
As I crept the new old van forward, the object stopped to stare at me. I had found the legendary Coyote of Christmas, right in Detroit. It looked at me curiously before darting into the trees which have taken over a vacant lot.
You didn't expect a miracle, did you?
A moth goes into a podiatrist's office. He begins pouring out his soul to the doctor, "Doc, I absolutely hate my job. I go in day after day and work at the same dull task over and over and I just can't stand it. It's pure drudgery."
"I wake up in the middle of the night and I have my arms around this woman who I don't love anymore. I don't know how I ever loved her. It's as though we have nothing in common, no understanding of one another, no connection at all. I wonder how I got myself into such a relationship."
"Mornings I find myself looking at my children at the breakfast table and I simply hate them. I despise them. My daughter is all goth and will hardly speak to me, and my son is a total coward who has no backbone whatsoever. I can't respect these kids, and they don't respect me."
"Some days I sit in my garage and pull the revolver I have hidden out of my tool cabinet and try to find the will to use it on myself to feel the sweet release of death. I hate my life that much."
The doctor said, "Sir, I really have tremendous empathy for you. You definitely have a lot of issues to work out. But I can't help you. You need a psychiatrist and I'm a podiatrist. Why did you come in here?"
"Well," answered the moth, "Your light was on."
We are, in case you didn't notice, almost exactly in between Christmas and New Year's Day. They fall on Sundays this year. Well, Christmas falls on Sunday this year while New Year's falls on Sunday next year. But you knew what I meant.
Which day of the week is it best for these holidays to occur? It is nice having a long week in between the two, but I rather believe that Thursday is the best day. You effectively get consecutive four day weekends when that happens, which is nice. Technically you get that when they fall on Tuesdays too. But as Wednesday work days follow those Tuesdays, it isn't as fun.
Me Uncle John who I call Zeke liked it best when Christmas and New Year's were on Wednesdays, right smack in the middle of the week. It breaks up the weeks nicely, in his mind, and you do get that convenient weekend in between for more a relaxed holiday season.
Fridays and Mondays aren't terrible. With Fridays you do get two three day weekends in a row, while Monday has the Tuesday problem of workdays immediately following.
What do you think is the best day for Christmas and New Year? And why am I asking? Because yes, Ron, this is a slow news day.
While logging into my AOL account yesterday I saw an article which proudly offered an easier way for seniors to trim their toenails. I clicked on the link, thinking, oh, I should check that out. It might be useful.
And this is what my life has become.
Heavy sigh.
In many parts of the English speaking world, today is Boxing Day. I can dig it. I'll start with Rocky Balboa, maybe shuffle back to the original Rocky, and throw in Raging Bull at some point. We can just keep the snacks coming all day, finish the leftovers, and maybe end the movie binge with that newer film about Apollo Creed. A boxing movie marathon. Sweet.
Wait, what? That's not what boxing day is about?
Thanks, folks. You could have included me in the memo.
Born to raise the sons of earth!
Born to give them second birth!
Hark! The herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!"
Merry Christmas everybody.
I just went through an excruciatingly aggravating episode with my AOL account. I kept getting told that my password was incorrect, even though I was sure I had been typing it in quite correctly. I was at the point of hitting every key quite precisely to be absolutely certain that AOL and my computer understood my intent.
In my mind I was doing everything right, of course. But somehow AOL wasn't accepting that very obvious fact, and I was getting very angry.
Then I noticed that some numbskull who shall remain nameless (because it wouldn't be fair even to call him Cloyce in this instance) had hit the CAPS LOCK key. So of course AOL wasn't understanding my password. I was essentially hammering it in precisely the opposite of what it literally was. Make sense?
So I was mad at AOL, the Internet, and computers in general all the while the victim of my own mistake. I'm glad I didn't raise too much of a ruckus.
I admit it: sometimes I feel like being a complete snot just to be a snot.
Domino's Pizza has lately been running a commercial about the 300,000 or so electric cars they're going to be using for pizza delivery because 'it's better for the planet'. I get it. They're trying to appeal to potential consumers with a smarmy and vaguely self righteous sales pitch. It's their right.
Yet with me, every time I see the commercial - every single time - I find myself seriously considering calling in an order - a very small order like breadsticks - simply as a reason to drive my gasoline burning van to a competitor of Domino's and pick it up myself. I merely want to assert, in my own little way, that you can jump off a bridge with your virtue signaling, Big Pizza Chain. I will drive my new old van whenever and wherever I want, as I'm not actually harming the planet in any real, long term way. Earth is resilient, folks.
In some ways I think I am becoming a curmudgeon. And, as my friend Maxwell Smart says, loving it.
December has been a great months for sales, and that's good. Because I'm in sales.
Last week I sold two Model C Electric Eel drain cleaners, one on each of two consecutive days. I like that. Because I'm in sales.
Yesterday a very good customer, indeed one of my best, called from Saginaw (about two hours north of Detroit) and asked about getting 30 cables ASAP. I told him I'd bring them right away. He kindly offered to meet halfway, which I did appreciate, so we set up a meeting point. "I'm not putting you out, am I, Marty?" the man asked me over the phone.
"My friend, I sell things. Delivery is in the job description!" I assured him.
The fact is I like being on the road. I like seeing people, especially those who, at the risk of sounding trite, are friends as much as customers. Ask me to help you; it's all good. Because I'm in sales.
Don't you get sick of it? I know I do. Wars and rumors of wars, albeit nothing that serious in this case. Thanks for the hyperbole yourself, Martin.
I'm reading and hearing warnings of a terrible storm out there somewhere which may be possibly brewing and might ravage the Christmas season, at least in the environs (Detroit, Michigan, for me) which are all around the nation but particularly the mid and northwest. And we may have blizzards, and we may not. The truth? They (they famous they) don't know yet. But will that keep them from fanning the flames of doom?
Nope. Christmas travel could be dicey this year. My family are all already exchanging what are we going to do texts.
I'll tell you what we're going to do: if things aren't that bad, a wild guess he says sarcastically, we stick to the plan and everyone travels safely. If not, we abandon the plan and simply accept that Christmas won't be the same this year.
I don't know what else to do, and there's really no sense fretting it.
During my recent examinations concerning my left foot, I had the chance to use what I thought was a clever joke. A resident doctor, a foreign man (I only point that out for the sake of the quip) looking in on me asked, "How do you think you injured it originally?"
"Probably yanking it out of my mouth," I drolly replied.
He stared at me uncertainly. "I do not understand."
"Oh," I responded. "Well, when we say something stupid, we sometimes say that we put our foot in our mouth."
The doctor smiled. "I shall have to remember that."
"Yes," I chuckled. "But it might not sound good if you asked a patient, So, did you hurt your foot when put it in your mouth?"
Nodding his head with a grin the man said, "I will be careful."
"Hey Marty! Guess what?"
No, no, no. Not playing that game.
"The Lions have won five of their last six!"
Not listening...
"There's only two teams above them in the playoff race!"
I can't hear you.
"They have the easiest schedule left of the teams in the hunt for the last spot in the NFC!"
Na-na-na-na, is someone talking?
"They're playing meaningful games in December!"
It just doesn't matter.
"Oh, come on, don't be a stick in the mud! Jump up on the bandwagon with us!"
Nope. Not gonna do it. I might, only might, take my fingers out of my ears when they win a second playoff game in my lifetime. Or if they continue to play well in 2023 with the tougher schedule they'll, I suppose earn. Until then, keep your football, Lucy Van Pelt. You're not playing me for a sucker. Again.
Yesterday I curled for the first time in almost three years. Nothing meant against my curling brethren, but it's easy to quit curling. Just don't go into a curling club. The game loses its grip on you; if you ain't there, you ain't thinking about it.
So I must say in all honestly that I didn't miss it. Until I walked into the Detroit Curling Club and saw so many old friends. Until I walked out onto the ice and threw my first stone since March 2020. It was a corner guard that my sweepers overswept and drug into the rings, but no matter. I was curling again.
I threw first, then went into the house to call the game. I was well pleased to find all the old strategy still at the front of my mind. I found I could still call line. Don't worry if you have no idea what I mean by any of this curling jargon. Suffice it to say it was like riding a bike, I felt that comfortable.
Now I'm planning to curl more this season, and hang out again with so many old friends. Curling is back in my blood. I'm ready to play again. And I'm not as sore as I thought I would be today, although walking down the steps this morning was excruciating. Curling makes you use leg muscles you don't ordinarily stress. But you pay the price, right?
This morning, for the first time in nearly three years, I'll be throwing them stones. I'll be curling again. First time since March 2020 in Bowling Green, Ohio.
Ah, Bowling Green. Nice new curling club. I remember that most of us still shook hands in greeting because, damn COVID, we knew then it was overblown, and it was still early. But enough pontificating.
There is a true brotherhood among curlers. We love the game, but we generally like the camaraderie more. On the ice, we try to win. No point playing any game if you don't want to win. But off the ice, most times anyway (there are unfortunately difficult people everywhere) we're all all right with one another.
We buy each other drinks and don't keep score. After nearly forty years of curling there are guys I'm sure who are ahead of me and guys where I'm ahead of them. No matter. At the bar, you buy a drink for a friend when he approaches. Details are unimportant. I remember one old Scotsman who walked around the Leamington Curling Club freely giving shots of $210 per fifth single malt whisky to any who cared to imbibe. He never refused anyone, and the bottle never ran dry.
We play, then retreat to the lounge and visit one another like human beings should, typically talking about anything but curling. Because, like all other sports, it's just a game, and should be appreciated in its proper perspective.
If someone tries to frame you into a Catch-22, do what's right and don't worry about them. No one has the right to put you in an impossible situation. That's just being toxic.
If you're damned if you do and damned if you don't, don't. No point working towards it.
A stitch in time saves nine. Yeah, I never got that one either.
Sometimes the best thing to do is walk away. You can't let another person's bad attitude affect you.
Lincoln was right: never argue with a fool. People might not be able to tell you apart.
See what a sleepless night can lead you?
I do not take soccer seriously. If you like it, fine. I'll even admit to things I like about it. Only the referee controls the clock, for one. And you have to be in outstanding physical shape to play it. It's also a cheap, easy sport for youngsters and their parents. It even deserves the name football more than the American brand. But I can't take it seriously so long as championships, such as the World Cup currently happening, are decided by what they call penalty kicks.
Basically, they place the ball in front of the goalie and one guy kicks it towards the net. If the goalie guesses right, he stops it. If not, easy goal. This is repeated until one team, after an equal number of tries, scores more than the other.
That's absurd, sports fans. I realize that in a tournament you need a winner. But widen the net. Remove the goalie. Take players off the field every few minutes of overtime to create more room to run, make plays, and score. Get rid of the offsides penalty in extra time. Something. Do something so that the game is decided on the field and not somewhat randomly as it is now.
Until some kind of adjustment is made, I can't take events such as the World Cup seriously. It would be like the World Series decided with a home run hitting contest, or a Super Bowl with a punt, pass, and kick display. Figure out ways to win during the ebb and flow of actual play or forget it.
One old and tired criticism of Christians is that we are 'only' mercenary. We only strive to do good so that we can sort of buy our way into Heaven while avoiding the punishment of Hell.
Setting aside the point that there's nothing terribly wrong with such an idea - do we actually want to teach that it's better to do evil if you're so inclined rather than do good from less than perfect convictions? - the criticism avoids the generally accepted fact that people are encouraged to be mercenary in other ways, for much less important goals.
Aren't we mercenary in pursuing a job or career path? To seek a nice house in a nice neighborhood? When on the athletic field? In finding a soul mate? While shopping for cool new things or deciding what to have for dinner? In all these areas and countless others aren't we seeking what is good for us, however mundane? Yet in looking for eternal joy we aren't supposed to consider what is good for us, what will make us happy?
Absurd. As a practical matter I'm fine with someone not stealing my car simply because he fears jail time. It would be better if he weren't to become a thief for the sake of higher ideals: respect for others and personal discipline for a start. Yet whether out of fear or a clear understanding and acceptance of moral good, he would have acted rightly either way.
Being only mercenary can never condemn a man. Perhaps it is less than perfect, yes. But if it slips us through the Pearly Gates and keeps my car in the drive, I should think it worth the trade.
Call me crazy - I'm sure most of you have by now - but some days I do worry that I am losing my mind.
The house is very quiet when I'm home alone during the day, working at my computer and absolutely not playing video poker (why would you think that?). It becomes, as the old trepidation goes, too quiet.
While I was working on my current writing project (and not, I stress, playing poker) I heard what I thought was a noise from the pantry. Great, I think, a critter has gotten into something. Do I have mousetraps? But checking the pantry found no evidence of a tiny rodent invasion.
A few minutes later I heard it again. Further investigation discovered no suspects, no scurrying activity. That's two strikes. At strike three, I'm going to tear the place apart, find that little miscreant, and settle our score.
Of course within a few minutes I hear more squeaking and creaking noises. I rose to storm the pantry, leaving pocket Aces at the table - I mean an incredibly important email unfinished - when I realize that it's the chair at my computer desk. When I shift my weight ever so slightly as I sit, I'm causing the noises myself.
I think I need to keep the radio or TV on as I work from home.
Psychology is a science of which I have always been skeptical. I don't want to argue that it has no merit. Perhaps I simply don't understand it. Still, conjecture about what exactly is happening and why in a human mind strikes me as a sort of hubris. How can an outside individual actually know that?
Anyway, and I'm not sure if this counts as psychological, I tried an experiment to see exactly how much of a hold certain habits may have on me. I have shaved the exact same way for years; a stripe by the nose past my mouth on my left, then on the right. Next I shaved from the sideburn on my left, then on my right. Lastly I did my chin, and then directly under my nose.
I went to shave under my chin first the other day, and honestly had to make myself do it. It was as though a tug of war was going in my brain: You don't start there! One swipe alongside from by your nose on the left, down past the mouth! What are you thinking?
Then I shaved under my nose and then by the sideburns, all the while feeling like it was wrong. Just. Plain. Wrong. It almost felt sinful.
I'm back to shaving like always. You have to be careful about fights where sharp objects are involved.
The term Grandpa Joe for my paternal grandfather came about as a compromise familiar. You can read about that here: Mom and Joe. Basically, Joe wanted his grandkids to call him Joe exactly as he taught his own children to call him by his name. When he confronted me Mom about it, seeing as me older brother and I are his oldest grandchildren, she'd have none of it. Grandpas were grandpa or pawpaw or poppop or grandpappy or something like that. The compromise became Grandpa Joe.
I get me Mom's point. I do believe that elder family members should be addressed by a traditional family moniker of some sort. Grandpa, Nana, Aunt, Uncle, as the case may be. Even people we just met ought to be called by some title, Mister, Missus, Ms, Sir, Ma'am, something, until we are familiar enough with them to call them by first names (or instructed to by the person in question). It's a respect we take too lightly in today's world.
However, I kind of understand Joe's wishes too. If he's okay with Joe, even from his progeny and their offspring, I don't see anything wrong with it. It's one of the reasons I consciously call him Joe many times in my blogs. It's what he wanted. As no real evil is involved, what's to debate?
So why did he want to be Joe rather than dad or pop or what have you? I really don't know. He simply preferred it that way, I guess, for whatever psychological reason. I never really questioned it. And the older I get, the less he's Grandpa Joe to me and more just Joe. That's simply who he was.
Recently I picked up a third car. I kept one of my old cars insured as one of those 'just in case' measures. It cost $263 dollars for six months to do that.
I ended up getting rid of the third car, well, the second car, because I just got the third car, if you know what I mean, more readily that I expected, so I hopped online and cancelled the insurance on the second (which had become my third car, if you know what I mean). Online told me that a direct deposit refund of $319 would be sent to my bank.
Okay, I'll take the money. Who wouldn't? But I don't understand how I can get $46 more back than what I had I paid for the extra insurance, even after the fee being prorated. Especially after the fee being prorated, for I did have three cars on the policy for about a month. I can't help but wonder, too, if I may have found a way to make a living simply by switching cars on and off insurance. Is it worth a try?
I understand that sometimes, when working with corded power tools, you need more power cord. I also understand that there are these things called extension cords. They come in several lengths, from 15 feet to 100. You can carry them with you to use as needed. What a concept.
Still, I have drain cleaning customers who want to keep 100 and 150 feet of power cord always attached to their drain snake. I do not understand that. At all. The extra line permanently attached actually throws the unit off balance, so that it leans backward from the added weight, sometimes threating to fall over. Yet you're rarely more than 25 feet from a 110 outlet in any home, office, or business. You don't need all that permanent length. "I just want to make sure I enough cord, Cosgriff." Oh, all right, whatevs.
Even more beyond my comprehension are the guys who want the power cords on their machines wrapped as tightly as humanly possible around the pegs on the units which serve to contain the wiring. You can almost see a guy holding his foot against a machine to keep it steady while he pulls the power cord so taut that a bullet couldn't penetrate the wall it effectively makes. They do this without considering that they may actually damage the cord. Why must it be see so tight anyway? There are no style points for how a cord is wrapped around a drain machine.
But, again, whatevs. I make more more replacing power cords that way.
For the last thirty five or so years of Joe Cosgriff's life, me Pops, his son, had full power of attorney over him. What that meant was that Dad could make any and all decisions about my grandfather's person, property, or business arbitrarily and unilaterally, without Joe's permission or even knowledge. Me Pops could have sold his house, his cars, drained Grandpa Joe's bank account, anything.
That's all stuff Dad would never have done, of course. But Grandpa wanted Pops to be able to make business decisions for him whenever Joe was on the road, which was often. He figured that with no easy ways of communication back then, sixty or seventy years ago, he'd set things up so that me Pops could immediately do whatever was necessary to run the family welding rental business. Joe figured that giving his son full power of attorney was the easiest way to do that: decisions could be made by Dad on the spot.
The lawyer setting it all up was aghast. He vehemently advised Joe not to do it. "It's dangerous to give someone that kind of power over your person and property, Mr. Cosgriff!'" the man argued.
"Hell, if I can't trust him now, when can I trust him?" Grandpa Joe shot back.
Joe and the old man had a good relationship, I tell you what. A good relationship.
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