Screw Loose

I ought to be far past the point where it would surprise me, but I'm not. You just think that maybe, just maybe, there might be hope for humanity, that things might change. Of course, they don't.

A customer at the Shop yesterday came in to have me put a chuck on his machine. The bolts which attach a handle to the unit were loose. Way loose. So loose in fact that the handles were nearly falling off. "Could you tighten those for me, Cosgriff?" the customer asked.

I don't mind doing that per se. What astonished me is how he could have let them get so loose to begin with. That kind of thing doesn't happen overnight. You never noticed it before now? And you're a professional. You have tools. Why didn't you tighten them up eons ago? 

I've seen this with gear cases on certain drain snakes. The case is fastened to the machine with six bolts. All six would be loose by several threads, actually leaving a visible gap between the gear case and the motor. Yet the customer would cry and pout to me about the cost of replacement gears because the old gears had ground down to nothing because the gear oil had all leaked out of the gear case because the bolts were clearly loose. It never occurred to you that bolts set in place to attach something should actually be made to attach that something?

I'm not the best myself at certain chores but I know enough about screws and bolts to know they should be properly tightened and to see when they are not. Yet after 50 years in the old barn folks still come in with absurdly loose connections and then ask, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, could you tighten those?"

Yes I can. Can I charge you for the labor and the stupidity too?

Twenty One Buck Cloyce

There's an old customer who frequents the Shop, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who is dense. He's not all there. A few straws shy of a bale. A bubble off plumb.

Yesterday he called about the price of a switch, and I told him $21. He came by and brought his machine into the old barn. "Can you put it on Cosgriff?" he asked.

"Sure, but's that's $40, including the switch." It's a simple enough installation, but you have to charge something for labor, even a modest amount like nineteen bucks.

Cloyce protested, "I only brought $21. That's what you said on the phone."

Silly me, thinking that anyone ought to presume there might be a charge for labor above and beyond the cost of a part. I'll remember that next time, at least with Cloyce.

I sighed heavily and attached the switch, contenting myself to work for a Jackson and a Washington (which turned out to be two Hamiltons and a Washington, but potato po-tah-to). As I went about the task, Cloyce spotted a handle he wanted which happened to be on another customer's machine. "Can you put this on mine, Marty?" he asked.

Well, Cloyce, you already confessed to only having twenty one bucks, so how are you going to pay for that?, I thought to myself. Besides, it's on somebody else's machine. So I went for smarm. "Yeah, Cloyce, I'll take it off for you and nicely explain to the owner that you needed it. He'll understand."

"Okay, thanks, Cosgriff." Thanks for what, Cloyce? Do you actually believe I'm going to do that?

He did. After he paid me for the switch, Cloyce stood staring at me. "Ain't you gonna put that handle on my machine?"

No, Cloyce, I'm not, I told him, and explained why. I would have to order him one. And I told him the full, installed price up front.

Tickets From Scratch

I can be a curmudgeon. I can be impatient. I can be astounded, outraged, and incredulous all at once too. Would you like to know, as my old friend Cloyce might say, "How could that be?"

It could be like this: I walked into a gas station the other day to pre-pay for my gas. I am increasingly using a debit card at the pump to avoid precisely the type of situations which I then encountered.

The woman in front of me was buying $100 worth of scratch off lottery tickets. That's frustrating when waiting in line for something simple - give me thirty bucks on pump four please - but it's how things are. I can accept that. And at least the woman asked for five $20 tickets; she could have wanted 100 one dollar scratch-offs, right? So it should still have been a quick transaction. 

Note the operative term, should have been. The attendant slid the tickets through the slot below the glass, and was given a debit or charge card for the purchase. But then - I still can't really believe it, and perhaps you can't fathom it - she slides them back along with a quarter and tells the man, "Scratch them off for me." She doesn't ask; she orders it. 

I think all three of us in line behind her openly groaned. The look she gave us in return in was, basically, um, ah, blank you. I was here first.

The attendant, equally astounded, took a moment to react, and I don't blame him. How exactly do you react when faced with an inherently bizarre demand? He finally shoved them back out at the purchaser and said, "You scratch them."

She grabbed her tickets and stormed out, all the time muttering about how rude people are. One guy behind me clapped as she left.

I should have joined him. But what was in it's turn funny was the attendant, as I paid him, held up the woman's coin and remarked with a grin, "And she forgot her quarter!"

Buffaloed

Yesterday I returned home from a quick run to the local supermarket. As I sorted out my change, I found that I had been given, not an ordinary nickel, but a Buffalo nickel.

Buffalo nickels were minted between 1913 and 1938. This means that mine is between 85 and 110 years old. I can't say for sure, because it's so worn from use that the date has rubbed off. There's a lot of wear around the edge of the coin too.

I'm debating whether to find a coin shop to have it appraised. I'm not fooling myself into believing it might actually be worth something, but I did find a similarly worn one being listed on eBay for $2500.  No joke; the date is rubbed away on that one too, so there must be some way to determine when such things were issued no matter what.

Anyway, I've been buffaloed. It's far from earth shattering, yet still a rather neat thing to happen.

Christmas Favorites

I mentioned my favorite Christmas novelty songs awhile back. I think I got into trouble over Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer. I would have thought Christmas at Ground Zero might have been the one to draw ire. Oh well.

But as to my favorite straight out Christmas song, one which takes Christmas seriously, that's a tough call. Schubert's Ave Maria always brings tears to my eyes; what a glorious, glorious tribute to the Mother of Christ. It's beautiful in Latin, and the thing is you don't have to understand the language to comprehend the profound beauty of the song. 

Midnight Mass at old St. Dominic here in Detroit always ended with Joy to the World, and as such meant Christmas, to me, had begun. That would have to be near the top of my list. I've always had a soft spot for O Little Town of Bethlehem, and I love Adeste Fideles too.

Yet I would have to say my favorite is likely (I say likely because our feelings for songs do tend to ebb and flow a bit) Hark! The Herald Angels Sing. And I mean precisely how the Peanuts gang sings it at the end of the Charlie Brown Christmas special. Maybe that's too sentimental of a choice. But when the kids all yell, "Merry Christmas Charlie Brown!" then launch into that hymn, well, I still get chills no matter how often I've seen the show.

So, it's Hark! The Herald Angels Sing. But I may be open to suggestion.

Rudolph's New Year

We're in that special time of year where there are specials. Many, many specials. Most of them are Christmas shows, repeated in many cases for eons. Some of them probably should never again see the light of day. But the television schedule must be filled, so the good is repeated with the bad.

Rankin-Bass (purveyors of many holiday programs, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer likely the most well known and loved) in an obvious attempt to take advantage of sentimentality, in 1975 created a New Year's special featuring our nasally powerful friend.

It isn't good. I caught it on Christmas Eve and could have spent my time better. But one thing about it left me laughing. It was surely unintentionally funny, and maybe only my warped mind thinks so. 

To cut to the chase, when a new year rings in 'old' year retires to an individually chosen island where it stays his year forever. The island of 1889, for example, stays locked in 1889 for all times. It serves the plot, I suppose. You don't want to kill off a character, in this case an old man who represents the passing year, in a kid's show.

My question is this. If each island stays a given year, does that mean that the island of 1352 repeats the Black Plague forever? In 1883, must Krakatoa constantly erupt? Does 1943 live the Battle of Stalingrad over and over again? How about Rome getting sacked day in and day out by barbarians on island 476? Must Bill Buckner constantly have that ground ball hop through his legs from the 1986 World Series for all times, for crying out loud? None of that sounds like retirement. It sounds like Hell.

I'm just asking.

Christmas 2023

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.

Old Knowledge

You're never too old to learn, right? And you're never too old to learn from someone older than you either. Whether you actually want to learn some of their wisdom is another question.

When talking to a friend who is about 20 years older than me, he was explaining why older folks have more trouble with bronchial issues. "The older you get, the weaker your chest muscles become. It becomes harder and harder to expel mucus."

Well, that's another thing to look forward to I suppose. The anticipation is killing me.

The Eve of the Eve

I hope everybody remembers the holiday I created. They don't? Well, here's a refresher: Christmas Eve Eve

And here's here: 2021

So happy Christmas Eve Eve! Just remember I own the copyright. The rampant consumerism begins and ends with me. Get going!

Wither Wisconsin?

I love maps. I always have. I like seeing what's where, even though I'll never get to most of the places that I now know where they are.

Some of it is, likely enough, sentiment. Me Grandpa Joe and I would look over maps at his kitchen table as I grew up, doing what I just said: seeing what's where. But he would also tell me about the places he'd been and how he got to them. He liked to travel by road, driving himself as much as he could. His son, me Pops, did too (they didn't call him The Road Warrior at Electric Eel for no reason), and I do as well. So it's nice to know what's where.

It was honestly like buying a new novel when I treated myself to a new road atlas a couple years ago. I got to pore over maps and see how places had changed and what new routes there were since I last studied them. I tell you, I can get to the immediate vicinity of any part of the United States just off the top of my head until yet. It's trivial knowledge, but fun for me.

And then there's the shapes and figures a map offers. I was always fascinated with how states and nations looked on a map. I still think, as I first concluded years ago, that Wisconsin appears to have been spewed from the mouth of Michigan's Upper Peninsula. Really. Vomited right out, a supreme act of regurgitation. Pull up a map these United States today and study it. You'll agree with me.

No offense, Wisconsin. Okay, maybe a little. 

Clean Slate

Bush's Drug Store was pretty much right across the street from the house me Pops grew up in at 1104 Putnam in Detroit. The Cosgriff family frequented it for their medicines and whatever other sundries the store might have offered.

One day when in his teens me Pops and a friend were drifting around the old neighborhood, killing time on a winter afternoon. As the pair neared the store his buddy said to Dad, "Bet you can't hit Bush's sign with a snowball." Above the doorway, adorned with the Coca-Cola moniker, was sign which said 'Bush's Drugs', a typical way of advertising in the day. Actually, until yet I suppose.

"Sure I can," a supremely confident Teenage Pops replied. He scooped up a handful of snow, packed it tightly, and let it fly, striking the sign dead center.

It shattered into dozens of pieces. Pops assumed the sign was metal or wood, but it was slate. On that cold day, a well pitched snowball was bound to do irreparable harm.

'This is going to take weeks for me to pay for,' Teenage Pops thought woefully. But right was right, and the Cosgriffs and Mr. Bush were friends as well as patrons and druggists, so Dad went in to confess what he had done.

"I threw a snowball at your Coke sign and it shattered, Mr. Bush," he explained when the pharmacist came from a back room.

Mr. Bush offered a wry smile. "Well, young man, you picked a good day. They're coming out tomorrow with a new sign to replace it. Clean up the debris and we'll be fine."

The fog lifted, the angels sang, and Teenage Pops' Shop salary wouldn't be dunned. Life was good.

Evaporating Cloyce

Awhile back I was out to dinner with an old friend; I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. As a start, I ordered a Diet Coke and he asked for milk, then he excused himself for a moment.

The waitress came back shortly with a my glass of pop. For Cloyce, she left an empty glass but set two 4 ounce cartons of milk to the side. Cloyce returned and sat down in front of the empty glass. We began chatting.

Not having noticed the two small cartons, Cloyce eventually picked up the empty glass and remarked, "What? Did I order evaporated milk?" 

When I had finished laughing, I pointed to the milk cartons.

On Blessings

Can anyone - this isn't simply or merely a gay rights issue - receive a blessing when it's requested, no questions asked? This seems to me the core trouble with the recent document which the Vatican has released, which is being interpreted by many as allowing the blessing of illicit marriage. 

I don't pretend to be the best person to answer that question. Yet that doesn't mean that I, as a lay Catholic, cannot or should not mull over the implications. Indeed I should, and have the right.

Is the blessing of human beings without regard to their personal disposition analogous to priests blessing objects and animals? It strikes me that animals are innocents, so I don't think this applies to them. But I don't see that you can include objects in the same way. Objects often have intent behind them. Should a statue of Baal, or a Nazi flag, or a burning cross upon a lawn, be blessed? I should think not.

This raises an issue with offering a person a blessing no matter what. I don't see how their disposition cannot be a factor. If they ask for a blessing for themselves as they are, with no true intent of changing into a better person through the blessing, what's the point? 'Bless me as I am' appears arrogant in that light. Demanding that blessing seems to me effrontery and insolence. As such, I don't see how the person of whom the blessing is asked cannot consider the overt, and, indeed, the covert, disposition of the asker. 

That's just my two cents. And remember, I think this applies to anyone asking for a particular favor of anyone else, not solely towards the alphabet soup crowd and their loyalists. If you aren't trying to change for the better, there's no point to asking for a blessing. There's no obligation to grant it either.

Inspired, Maybe

Start your week right. It's a good idea to set the pace straight from the beginning, so that you can be a great success in the days which follow. 

This morning, my inspiration came to me immediately and unexpectedly. Upon waking, I grabbed my Kindle and logged on to the Internet. What appeared was a simple poster which read: Motivation. Every dead body on Mt. Everest was once a highly motivated individual. 

I think I have indeed set the right tone for the coming week.

E And I

I tend to leave the TV on overnight. It probably isn't the best habit, but, there it is.

As I lay half awake this morning, trying to wipe the sleep from my eyes, I heard a voice say that the next thing in the viewing lineup was 'educational and informative'. Rousing myself up on my elbows, I was greeted by the theme song for Saved By The Bell, a rather silly high school comedy from the 1990s.

Well, all right, I suppose. But I expected something such as a PBS science offering or a World War II retrospective, not one with mild teen angst.

I turned to a Christmas episode of The Ozzie and Harriet Show. Who wants education and information this early on a Sunday morning anyway?

Beverly Hills Saturday

Oh, those Clampetts. They're just fish out of water. But their hearts are in the right place.

Their rustic charm is endearing. But how they misunderstood so much is beyond belief. I'm wondering if maybe they're in a situation comedy and not a reality show like I was thinking. I mean, nobody could be that dense, right?

Battery Light

The battery light, the warning light on a car dashboard that look like a small rectangle with a positive and a negative sign within it, came on yesterday just as I was leaving Indianapolis. So what did I do?

I drove home with it on. I thought, well, the new old van is running well, and if I turn it off, what? Will it restart? Obviously I had no way of knowing. But my choice seemed to be to find a mechanic in Indy, a very random random process, or see if I could get back to the D to take it to my long time car guy. I elected the latter, and got all the way home just fine.

In fact, the first time I shut it off, the engine restarted readily and and easily. A couple hours later when I tried firing up the old van once more, it again started with no trouble.

Do I take it to my mechanic anyway, or was this just a fluke?

Never a Bad Time

Well, we were 2-0 in our curling bonspiel and finished second in our draw. The number of old friends I saw was heartening. It's great to walk into a place where everybody knows your name. 

There's never a bad time in a curling club. I firmly believe that; yesterday attests to it. I'm looking forward to the next time.

Tier 55

Today I take a day off work (I'm the boss; I can do that) to curl in a bonspiel. A bonspiel is an odd way to say tournament, but that's okay. I think you have to be slightly odd to want to curl. Remember before your ire is raised that I'm a curler along with you. Unless, that is, your issue is in fact being associated with Marty in any way, shape, or form, at which point you can...

Okay, what was my original point? Ah, yes. This bonspiel is a Tier 55 tournament, which means you have to be over 55 in order to play. My fake birth certificate attests that I am. Those truly old enough to qualify won't know what hit them.

All right, what was I going for here really? Right: these tournaments are called Tier 55 because they can't be called Senior Bonspiels as they once were because the PC crowd has invaded even curling. We can't upset older curlers with the insult senior, so we alter the title.

The fact is, none of us old duffers care. We just want to curl. We don't care what you think about our age. We pay the fee, we throw stones, we have a few pops afterwards. What harm are you protecting us from? What evil threatens our supposedly fragile psyches?

I'm going curling today with a bunch of old guys who want to curl. If that's good enough for us, the details ain't none of your business. Go save some other frail mind who has no understanding of the real world. We're all right with ourselves. And that's the truth.

Stupid Mistakes

There are mistakes, me Uncle John who we call Zeke used to say, and there are stupid mistakes. While you want to avoid either the former are more forgivable than the latter.

Yesterday I almost made a stupid mistake. I noticed that a tire was low on my newer older van. Then, since I hadn't checked it in awhile, I saw that my spare was low too. "Ah, I'll take care of them tomorrow," I thought to myself.

No, take care of them today, another voice told me. You're going curling tonight in Canada. You really want to take a chance of having a flat at 10 PM, in the cold, in another country, with an almost flat spare too?

I aired up the tires yesterday, and all went well. I've made enough stupid mistakes before. I'm old enough I should stop that.

Not a Treat

The other day I spoke about candy corn and fruitcake. I don't understand why folks don't like them. But it just so happens there is a holiday treat which I don't care about. They arrive annually at Christmas and I avoid them. Candy canes simply have no appeal for me.

They have too much peppermint. They're too sticky when you eat them. They take too long to eat. About the best thing I can say for candy canes are they're all right to melt into your hot chocolate. But only if you can keep the drink hot enough long enough to manage that.

I've read that candy canes were first made to mollify youngsters during Church services. You know, to keep them quiet during pious observances. If you want an explanation of why Church attendance is down among the last few generations, I vote candy canes. Who would actually want to continuing going some place associated with those awful sugar sticks? It's nothing doctrinal, it's repressed memories of having candy canes forced down your gullet.

Candy canes hang around because we've been played. It's Christmas! You have to get your candy canes! Humbug.

Well, I suppose something has to take up the space at the bottom of the candy jar though.

Lutherans at Christmas

My friend Dave is a good man. He's as serious of a Lutheran as I am a Catholic, and we've had a few interesting discussions on religion over the years. But we've always been cool about it, which you should be. Oh, maybe the talks became pointed once or twice, but we were always all right with each other in the end. Which you should be.

Anyway, his visit reminded me of a little fun I had at his expense years ago. His son was in the old barn, and it was December. I told him, "Hey, when you see your Dad, ask him if Lutherans celebrate Christmas."

About an hour later the Shop phone rang. As this was before cell phones, I didn't know who was calling. I simply answered, "Cosgriff, this is Marty."

There was initially dead silence. Then Dave's voice asked, "Do Lutherans celebrate Christmas?" in exactly the put-on incredulous voice I would have expected.

AND NOW, THE PUNCH LINE. Let's see how many readers get it.

I asked Dave awhile back if I could use the Lutheran Christmas joke in my blog. He said, "Only if you don't call me Cloyce."

You got it old pal.

Air Head

There was once an employee at the the old barn, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who sometimes couldn't grasp simple ideas. One such concept was the difference between weight and pressure.

We had a lot of trailer mounted welding machines which had pneumatic, that is, air filled, tires. The typical pressure in a properly inflated tire was 32 psi, or 32 pounds of air pressure per square inch. 

One day I had my bicycle at the Shop. The tires were low, so I turned on the air compressor to fill them. "What do they take?" Cloyce asked me.

"50 psi," I answered.

"What?" a stunned Cloyce demanded. "How can those small tires take more air than a welder tire?"

"They don't take more air," I responded. "They have a higher air pressure."

"But we put 32 pounds of air in the welder tires. You just said you put 50 pounds of air in the ones on your bike."

"There's a difference between the volume of the air in something and the pressure the air creates within it, Cloyce."

He pondered that a moment, but it was obvious he didn't get it. Cloyce walked away shaking his head. "How can you put 50 pounds of air in a small tire but only 32 in one a lot bigger?" he was asking himself.

We would talk about it from time to time, and he even asked me Pops to explain it, but Dad couldn't get through to him either. I guess science just wasn't Cloyce's strong suit.

Lingering Aroma

Just to be straight with you, dear readers, I don't care one whit whether you smoke dope or not. Your choice. The truth is I've come to the point that I think even drugs beyond marijuana should be legalized, the whole kit and kaboodle. We spend too much money fighting them and our prisons are too crowded with drug offenders. Legalize the whole lot of them and then treat them like alcohol abusers, busting those who drive high and so forth. Yet none of that means I don't cast a scornful eye on outrageous drug use.

Monday morning at 10 o'clock I had two young plumbers (or guys who pass themselves off as plumbers) pull up to the Shop, needing a chuck on their drain cleaning machine. Fine. I put on the part and took their money. But they were not only higher than kites, their van emitted enough smoke that you may have thought it on fire. When they opened the sliding door to bring their machine in, literal clouds of smoke poured out of the vehicle. If you've seen, I believe it's the comedy Scary Movie, you would have an idea what I mean. In that film, at one point a group of teens were smoking so much weed that their car looked like a cloud had been contained inside.

The van these fellows drove was very nearly like that. It was as though they'd picked up a cloud and were showing it the sights.

I can't believe that anyone would let them into their house to snake a drain. Further, I can't imagine the kind of house which would allow them in, although apparently they exist. 

And all this at 10 AM on a Monday. I couldn't wait for them to go away. The next three customers, spread out over about an hour, remarked on the smell of weed in my Shop afterwards. It was that bad. Bad enough that my conscience wonders if maybe I should have gotten their license plate and called the cops.

Yeesh.

Struck Gold, uh, Fruit

I don't care about the low opinion which many people seem to hold about it, I like it. The holidays simply aren't here without it gracing the larder. I'm talking about fruitcake, one of my favorite holiday traditions. I put it right up there with the Bathroom from Hell. More on that later.

I love fruitcake, yet for whatever reason it was hard to find this year. Until yesterday. Our local supermarket finally had some in stock so I bought two. I didn't want to risk being left wanting.

Many folks see fruitcake the way they see candy corn during Halloween. I don't understand it on either count. Sure, candy corn is awfully sweet. It is pretty much just little triangles of sugar. But why is that a problem, a very non-diabetic Marty asks. It ain't like ya ain't gonna get too much sugar towards the end of each October. Or enough sugar. Or, uh, you know what I mean.

Wither fruitcake? It isn't particularly sweet and it isn't, as I've heard complained, rock hard. With a cup of hot coffee or cold milk it's not much different than lots of cakes and pastries. Where's the love?

But, whatever. I like it and I've got it. Let the Christmas season commence!

A Moment of Inspiration

An old buddy of mine, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, once took a few courses at the local university. He wanted to see if college might offer anything to him.

One night he was stuck in a political science class and the discussion became tedious. What would you expect when the subject is politics? 

The group was talking about capitalists and socialists and all kinds of ists. Somewhere along the line someone asked, "What is a socialist really?" A voice at the back of the room responded, "A socialist is someone who likes to spend someone else's money."

Cloyce leaped up and yelled, "My wife is a socialist!"

Cloyce drives a truck because he flunked out of college.

Cord Accords

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 money replacing power cords that way.

Emotional Investment

I am an advertiser's nightmare, a destroyer of the hype machine, anathema to television networks. The older I get, the more I ignore both adverts and hyperbole.

I'm not trying to hit on anyone's favorites or foes, but only using Michigan football as an example. I watched most of last Saturday's game against Ohio State and did not enjoy a minute. I was more relieved than happy when the Wolverines won. I simply didn't have any fun despite, for me, a positive outcome.

Last night U of M won the Big Ten title game over Iowa. I did not watch a second. Indeed, I crawled into bed and was asleep before 7. I woke up around 1 to find they had won, and I was happy. I didn't stress the outcome at all in ignoring the game and felt better afterwards.

Perhaps, to be fair, it's only me, yet I increasingly find that high powered sports just aren't worth the emotional investment. I'm inclined to exempt baseball, for various reasons I won't get into here. I can't imagine myself not watching and listening to baseball. But football, well, too much hype, too much hyperbole, and a certain unsportsmanlike arrogance. It's not good for the soul.

Evil in Wheelchairs

I really, really don't care for inserting myself into the whole woke business. It's simply a morass which can only muddy everyone. Then something happens which makes me ask, who would even, ever think that? 

Doctor Who is a long running and generally entertaining British sci-fi franchise. The most recent version reintroduced a character called Davros. Davros has been around since 1975 and is evil. Very, disgustingly, despicably evil. He has also always been wheelchair bound.

They changed that. The new Davros can walk because, in the words of Russell Davies, the BBC executive currently in charge of Doctor Who, "We didn't like the imagery of the bad guy being in a wheelchair." 

He's on to something, you know. When I first saw Davros way back when my initial thought was, "Huh. Dave down the street must be evil because he's in a wheelchair..."

Of course that wasn't my first thought. I can't imagine that it was anybody's first thought. Nor their second, third, or eighty ninth. How twisted could a mind be to even draw that conclusion, that outrageous thought, from such a benign fact?

Do they, the woke crowd, actually mean this stuff? Are they that stupid, or do they in fact have an agenda? Sometimes I wonder.

History on the Road

You learn, or at at least you can learn, on the road. What did I learn yesterday?

Indiana State Route 9 is the highway of the Vice Presidents. All you folks in all our history who were one heartbeat away? Indiana 9 has your back.

U. S. Route 6 is the route of the Grand Army of the Republic, the Union Army of the Civil War. It specifically refers to an association of Union Civil War veterans formed after the conflict. Kinda cool.

I also learned that you can get small tubs of cookie dough bits in the refrigerated snack aisles at truck stops. All right, maybe that isn't as important as remembering history. But they're sweeter than any candy bar I know.

Feeling Chippy

I read that the Lay's potato chip company plans to change their recipe so that it conforms to the World Health Organization standards. My only question is, can you actually make healthy potato chips? And, who would want to?

All right, two questions. Just don't be messing with my yummy, salty chips y'all.

Christmas Carols

We all know that Charles Dickens classic A Christmas Carol is, um, a classic. But which Christmas Carol movie is the definitive one?

Is it, as commonly thought, Alistair Sim's from I believe 1951? I've always liked George C. Scott's Scrooge. A Muppet Christmas Carol is, I mean it, a personal favorite.

Jim Carrey's take is interesting but rather dark. A good friend insists in all seriousness that Mr. Magoo's cartoon Christmas Carol is the best, and I can certainly see an argument for that.

There are others, many others. It sounds like I may have my holiday binge watching all lined up.

Chalk Lines

Snow fell overnight in Detroit Sunday evening into Monday morning, our first measurable snowfall of the season.  Oh joy, oh rapture. I do hope you heard that in the sarcastic voice intended.

Around 7 AM I set out to clear the steps and the cars. There was nothing to shovel from the concrete walks but the wooden steps were cold enough for the little white flakes to stay where they fell. The same thing with the metal cars. Light, fluffy snow had to be brushed from them.

Three or so hours later as I returned home from a couple local trips, I saw exactly where our three vehicles had been. The snow lines from the brushing appeared just like police chalk lines around a murder victim.

I almost took photos of the car outlines like a police photographer might. I could have been a detective saying, "Yes. Ma'am, that's right where we found your husband. Pretty big guy, eh?" Only a detective wouldn't actually say that. At least, he wouldn't have offered an opinion on the husband's girth to his grieving widow. I don't think so anyway.

Feeling Silly

We got the Christmas tree up Saturday, and it's the best tree ever. We almost needed to get new strings of lights thanks to a blunder by yours truly, but someone caught the trouble before then.

I got the old lights out to discover that half of each strand didn't work. Rats. I wasn't about to take three hours or more trying fix them; lights are too cheap these days to warrant that much trouble. It turns out, as me son discovered, that what I thought were bundles of long light strings were in fact double bundles of shorter lengths, two light strings per set. When you found the other plug, those lights worked. 

I felt a bit silly. But it saved a trip to the store and let us get on with decorating, so all was well.

Right When Wrong

I don't need a Church to tell me I'm right when I'm right. I need a Church to tell me I'm wrong when I believe I'm right. So said Mr. G. K. Chesterton.

He's onto something. What's the point in belief if you're okay exactly as you are? What's the point of anything if we're all all right anyway? And what's the point of a critical institution if it can't be critical?

A parent who never instructs or admonishes their child can't much of a mom or dad. Well, perhaps if the idea of parenthood is to create arrogant and self centered offspring, but that doesn't strike me as a sane way to raise a family. It strikes me as cruel to the kids and inconsiderate of the general society.

But maybe that's just me. 

Take a Pill, Lions Fans

I never imagined myself saying this, because I am most certainly not Mr. Lions Fan. I do want them to win, I simply quit expecting it, given their history. Even earlier this year I was preaching caution because, yes, they look good and, yes, there may just be a different vibe to this squad, but there's a long road in front of them. Yet after their Thanksgiving loss two days ago I actually feel that I need to be the one putting a positive spin on things.

I know the last three games haven't been pretty, especially the Turkey Day loss. But judging from the reactions of several of my Facebook friends, it's the Apocalypse, the end times. "I knew Goff (the quarterback) wasn't the answer!' screamed one. "Thank you Lions, for sucking the joy out of Thanksgiving!" another lamented. "What was Campbell (the head coach) thinking on that fake punt?" moaned a third. "Their defense if awful!" I read on several pages.

Those are just examples to illustrate the point. But football fans, being far, far too emotional about what's only a game, seem to me the most fragile in the sports world. Goff's had a great run of 18 or 20 games; it's almost time he had a couple clunkers. And he did helm the Rams to the Super Bowl before Stafford did, you might recall. Campbell is doing what he's always done: being aggressive. It bit him this time, and he manned up and admitted his error. And everyone lays at least one egg (if not two, or even three) in a football season. This was one of Detroit's. It happens.

Take a breath, Lions fans. A deep one. I'm not sold on this team yet, but they are 8-3 and in command of their Division race. Okay, maybe they are tanking. Yet seeing what they've done the last half of last season and the first 11 games of this one, let's at least give them the chance to do good things. If I can manage that, so can you.

Dim Bulb

Of all things that I know little about, electricity tops the list. What I do know applies more to electric motors and not household power. I can replace an outlet or a light switch if I know that's the problem, but diagnostics are way above my pay grade. That's why when the kitchen lights went out yesterday I was at a loss.

The outlets worked, thank goodness. There were no worries about food spoilage due to the refrigerator not running. But the lights were off.

I tried all the usual suspects, flipping switches to no avail while checking the circuit breakers and the fuse box (yes, we still have a small auxiliary fuse box in our old home). The fluorescent bulbs seemed fine and appeared solidly in place. I was stumped.

I had stepped off the ladder which I had set up to check the bulbs and light fixtures without any clue what to try next. Absentmindedly, I reached for the light switch, flipping it. Viola! The lights came on. 

Now I don't want to turn them off. I bought new on/off switches from the hardware and new cords in case I need them. But it might be January before I dare try killing the lights.

Music for the Season

While channel surfing in the wee hours this morning, I came across a music station which asserted it was offering 'the Sounds of the Season'. They were claiming to play Thanksgiving songs. But does Don McLean's American Pie count towards that? I mean, it's a bit of a downer, isn't it?

Yet what counts as a Thanksgiving tune? I can't think of anything in particular. Vague ideas about something hymn like or patriotic float within my mind, but nothing specific. Let's see what that channel offers next.

It's Louis Armstrong singing What a Wonderful World. All right, that's a good choice. I might just listen to a few more.

Patron Saint of What?

The phone rang yesterday morning; it was a customer in distress. "Oh, man, Marty, I'm glad you're there! I need help, and you're the Patron Saint of Drain Cleaners!"

Well, how about that? I'm a patron saint while I'm still here on Earth. But what would my stained glass window look like?

It would be in a large cathedral, of course, with me operating a genuine Electric Eel Model C, hands firmly on the handle, cable held straight, my eyes turned piously towards Heaven as the water begins to drain down the pipe. An aura, a subdued halo would be around my head as I gaze, perhaps. I might be wearing the brown robe of a monk. Bright, shining yellow glass from above my head would appear to  bless my task. Just imagine the actual Sun coming through all that. Saint Marty of Detroit, Patron of Drain Cleaners, would be on a small plaque at the bottom of the window. An Angelic Choir can be heard in the background.

I like it.

Not Impressed

They're all over the place: ads from law firms which talk about how much money they win for their clients, and about their spectacular winning record. All they care about are you. All they care about is getting you the money you deserve. The money for you which they take about a third of by the way. They need it to pay for their advertising. And their Mercedes.

The typical come-on is that they have free consultations. And that's the rub, so far as I'm concerned. They want to see how much money, if any, your case is worth. They won't 'fight' for you if it won't pay. They pick and choose. They don't give a tinker's dam about you if they don't believe it'll get them the big bucks.

I don't blame them, quite honestly. Who wants to work for nothing? But cut the crap, the overwrought assurances. It ain't about your clients, law firms, it's about whether you think you can win. I'm not impressed by your chest thumping.

In Review

In working to get my books reviewed I'm also trying to be kind to other authors and review their books. It's reached the point where I get asked to read something and give my opinion. If a certain tome looks interesting I'll get a copy and do so. I need stuff to read anyway, right?

I was asked yesterday to review a collection of word search puzzles. It isn't by one specific author but, apparently, an effort of a company which publishes fun books, crosswords, sudokus, and obviously word searches. 

Well, okay. I find it difficult not to be a bit of a twerp about reviewing word searches though. "Wow, those words really were hidden!" seems patronizing. "I couldn't find a single word, you hit them so well!" keeps repeating itself in my mind. "Is this English?" I think of replying in all silliness, "Because I doubt WXHTTR is a real word, even backwards or diagonally."

Ah, yes. Too proud of myself yet again.

You Know You Know

You know how computers and electronics are literal, right? You know how this includes alarms and alarm clocks? You know how you have to set the clock for either AM or PM?

Yesterday morning I slept until 8:45 or so. Upon wiping the sleep from my eyes and realizing that it was clearly beyond 7 AM, I was incredulous how I might have missed my alarm. I knew I had set it. I was certain I had set it.

Of course, I had set it. For 7 PM. I didn't pay enough attention to the practical particulars. And I'm simply glad that all I had on the docket for Friday was working at the old barn. I suppose that's what happens when you're up from 2 in the morning until 5:30 and decide to take an extra nap.

Patience Practice

I had a fairly long day on the road yesterday. It wasn't helped by two traffic delays, one caused by construction, another due to a fender bender. Such is life.

They were aggravating enough as it were, but even that was complicated. Neither time did my phone app which was supposed to alert me to delays actually inform me of the backups. Technology is great until it doesn't work. Then, we have our patience tried.

I have said quite seriously and honestly that I pray for patience. Apparently the Almighty is taking me at my word by trying it. I believe He is demonstrating that to learn patience we must be faced by incidents which call for it. 

Well played. Now I simply must put the plan into action. I can't say much else, because I asked for it.

Four Hundred Pounds Plus

Me Pops had a lot of great stories about his time in the welder rental and drain snake business. I hope to one day tell them all. One that just popped back into the front of my mind today involved the biggest man Dad ever dealt with. He was a good guy just the same, genuinely helpful and gregarious. But he was big. And he had the strong to go with his size. I'll leave exactly how big and strong to your imagination. But think bigger than you think big is.

To give an example of his size and strength, there was a job where me Pops was delivering welders along with the heavy cables necessary to weld with. These cables weighed a touch over a pound a foot. That particular day Dad had several 200 ft. lengths to deliver.

Guys were coming up to the back of Dad's truck and doubling up, two to a cable, to carry them over to the tool crib. Big Jim walked up and offered Pops a shoulder. "Put one there, Bill," he instructed.

"They're two hundred footers, Jim."

"Put one there," he replied simply, wagging his shoulder at the old man. So Dad did, setting it down as gently as he could. Then Jim turned about and said, "Give me another," indicating his empty shoulder.

"They're all two hundreds," Dad reminded him. Jim replied, "Give me another."

So me Pops set another cable on that shoulder. Big Jim walked away with more than 400 pounds of welding cable on his shoulders as though taking a stroll in the park.

I want him on my side in a rumble.

Check It Out

From an article I read on AOL (so it must be true) Costco, WalMart and many other chain stores are rethinking their self checkout lines. They may be getting rid of them. Well, okay. Personally I like the process. I feel that it gets me out of the stores faster than traditional checkouts. But, whatever floats yer boat.

Many folks have complained that they don't like to use them because they don't work at the store. A-hem: you just spent an hour walking around the place to pick and choose the items you put in your cart, that is, self-serving, yet you're high and mighty about self serve at the register? I ain't impressed at the complaint. If you really mean what you say about not 'working' at the store then how about you move to Hooterville and have Sam Drucker collect your purchases from behind a counter, price them and bag them? Otherwise, you're just virtue signaling.

But here's what struck me about this 'rethinking' process. The stores in question are considering a return to human cashiers because, they say,  customers want it. Oh, and due to theft and/or loss because of wrongly checked foods and what not. 

A-ha. It ain't customer service concerns for them. It's about the profit margin.

I get that. As an essentially self employed man myself, you have to be in the black. You can stay home and go broke, me Pops used to say. No point working at it. Yet Big Box Stores are at the same time trying to sell (I love puns) the back to the past idea due to customer demand. People, at least some of them (curmudgeons such as I aside) like 'the human factor' and WalMart and friends are trying to appear empathetic.

I ain't impressed by that any more than the whining about self serve checkouts. Y'all just be honest about things, the both of you, and I may learn to respect you each just a tad more.

Human Nature

Yesterday my energy bills - for electricity and gas respectively - came in. They were higher than I expected, although I expected that. There's a Yogi-ism for you to contemplate.

To be fair though, don't we always complain about what things cost or how well they work? It's certainly been a mantra for me and among family and friends for as long as I can recall.

Has it always been this way? Did hunter-gatherers thousands of years ago say things like, "The sticks we use for kindling sure are harder to find these days." 

"When I was a boy, fires lasted a lot longer than they do now," Grandpa might have complained from his rock recliner as the family lounged around the cave. 

Just wondering.

Comrade Cloyce

A friend of mine, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, decided for whatever reason several years ago to tour Russia. He and his wife began making plans for the trip.

The travel agent suggested that it would be easier to move around even within that country if they obtained Russian passports. Cloyce never imagined that such things were available to non citizens, but on that advice he and Mrs. Cloyce applied for and were issued Russian passports.

You know how so many pictures of old Soviet leaders look as though they had just been force fed three servings of pickled herring? That's what Cloyce looked like in his Russian passport photo. Comrade Cloyce, I've called him ever since. He truly looked mean and unsavory although he's actually one of the most gregarious men I know. 

Why the grim look? "Because you better not smile especially for a Russian passport picture," Cloyce explained.

Lunch With Cloyce

Nowadays the operators of drain snakes are taught never to handle the rotating steel cable because of the threat of serious injury. But that wasn't always the case. 

Time out of mind, drain cleaners opened sewers by shoving the spinning cable into the line by hand. The real old timers actually did it bare handed, would you believe it? They handled the greasy black cables, the greasy black coming from the sewer sludge, without gloves. One old plumber, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, took it to a new level. 

To tell it true, Cloyce was a top notch sewer man. Still, his personal habits left something to be desired. He did not for example wash his hands while working. He allowed all that greasy gook to build up on his paws while unclogging those drains all day.

When lunch came, typically an oily sardine sandwich, he would find a place to park his van and eat. With horribly dirty hands. Cloyce would hold his sandwich by a corner, and eat around it until all that would be left was that corner held by slick, black, greasy fingers.

Cloyce would then throw away that part. He wasn't that gross.

Dear Marty

Dear Marty,

You don't have to explain anything to me. I'm fine.

Your money is your money. Your time is your time. You can spend your time and money with whoever you want to. If you want to spend them on those brazen, shameless hussies 'Up North' then that's what you do. 

You know what? Things are fine. I'm just fine.

West Branch.

Dear West Branch

Dear West Branch,

Look, I know it isn't your fault. You're just a victim of circumstance, a geographical accident. But you are half way to Hessel. And that's exactly the problem. 

Part of that's on me. When I go Up North like last Wednesday I should be happy to see you because the trip is half over. Yet I'm not. I can't be. I'm only 50% to da U. P. A lot of time is still on the clock.

Grayling, Gaylord, Indian River; that's when you start making time. That's when you're really picking up and laying down those miles. Then you make that curve around mile marker 334 and the Mackinac Bridge rises to greet you...

I'm sorry, I'm sorry. that was rude of me, West Branch. You can't help where you are.

We've had great times, right? Coffee stops, lunches, dinners; even breakfasts when I've left Detroit early enough. Let's focus on them. Let's remember the good times. I'll still stop, I'll still check in from time to time. I promise.

Friends?

Marty

Fixing a Hole

Me Grandpa Joe once had this big black Cadillac, I think it was an Eldorado, and it was a monster. A veritable battleship. I mean, that thing was huge. It's passing by would cause a solar eclipse. And like most of Joe's cars, it was, well, unique.

We never did get the brakes working quite right. You learned while driving it to anticipate traffic lights, slowing down blocks away when it looked like the light would go red soon. Me Uncle John known in some quarters as Zeke once suggested we install those big parachutes like they have on drag racers to help the car stop on time because, being big and heavy, it took a lot to stop that vehicle. The engine required so much work that Zeke also quipped that once he saw the car on the street and almost didn't recognize it with the hood down.

But what got me the most about the car was the first time Joe had me changing the oil. Crawling under the belly of the beast to drain the motor, I couldn't help but see that the oil pan had apparently once sprung a leak. The clue? The pan was covered in heavy roofing cement.

I called to me Grandpa, "There's roof cement slathered on the oil pan. Maybe it used to have a leak."

"Does it look like it's leaking now?" he yelled back.

I studied it closely and replied, "No."

"Then we won't worry about it," Joe answered.

A typical Grandpa Joe view of a typical Grandpa Joe car. Damn, I miss that old man.

Electrical and Mechanical

I am no electrical expert. I admit that. But I do know some things about electric motors and how they work.

I am not a mechanical engineer either. Yet I know that what is entirely mechanical, while it may be driven by electricity, is at heart mechanical, components put in motion. 

It is not unusual for a drain snake with an electric motor to have what is called a slip clutch. It has little to nothing to do with the motor. 

A customer brought me an electric snake which hummed or buzzed when you turned it on. Nothing more. It clearly had an electrical issue. The young man insisted that if I replaced the clutch the problem would be solved. "I'm sorry, but it won't," I informed him. I demonstrated that the clutch, which can turned by hand, was working properly. "You have a motor problem."

"But I had three or four guys tell me that if I replaced the clutch everything would be all right."

Well, then. Why didn't they fix it? Why are you coming to me? I wanted to go full on Joe Cosgriff and explode at the customer, but I didn't. I took a deep breath, a very deep breath, and I let it out slowly. Very slowly. Then I said, in an almost perfect Mr. Spock voice (if you can accomplish such through gritted teeth), "I am going to suggest that they are mistaken."

He's taking the machine to an electric motor shop for their opinion. Good for him, bad for them.

At The Border

Last year when I ventured into Canada I took my new old van. Invariably the border guards would ask me to open the sliding door behind the driver's seat. The door not being automatic (it's a new old van, as I say) it took the act of a contortionist to get the dadburn thing open, for them to peek inside from their seat just quickly enough to go, "OK, thanks, close it." Repeat the process.

This curling season as I cross the border I purposely drive my newer older van, my 1996 Chevy. Why? Because it ain't got no stupid sliding door on the driver's side. You want to see more closely into my vehicle? Get out of your guard booth and walk around to the other side. I'll gladly use the power locks to unlock it for you as I perch comfortably in my Captain's chair behind the wheel.

It's only been three weeks, but they've yet to ask.

Any little way to protest, I'm protesting.

Detroit Tigers News

I get it. There's a certain irony in what I'm about to say. Make of it what you will. But I can't tell you how glad I was to pick up a Sunday paper and see an article about baseball on page one of the Sports section.

I know the Lions are doing well, and yes, being sports they merit the attention. Yet the main Lions headline yesterday was that they need a team song. Can you say filler? That's all it was, as they don't play this week. Yawn.

The University of Michigan football program is in a sign stealing scandal. Let it play out; it's all can we do. If they broke the rules they deserve an appropriate punishment. But everything right now, pro or con, is guesswork. Uh,uh, (I'm about to be facetious) there's a great new conjecture in the news every day, and on social media every minute Marty. It'll settle the whole question! Paint me uninterested. I would be if it were any other school too.

There's far more college football coverage in general than is truly worth reporting. The Red Wings and Pistons seasons merit scant attention in November. We simply make too much of sports and games. I mean that. Then I see a positive report (three in fact) about baseball and I think, ah, here's something worth reading. 

We all like what we like in sports, and that's fine so far as it goes. I understand that. But sports are still too important in our lives. I'm a victim of that too, in my own little way. 

Good For the Soul

Confession is good for the soul. I mean that as a general rule; we ought to examine our lives from time to time to consider what we might have done better at this point or that. We shouldn't beat ourselves up about it either as that's it's own downward spiral which can hurt more than it helps. But if we can't look at ourselves and concede, all right, I ought to have handled that better or acted differently, we probably aren't being honest enough.

As a Catholic, I'm obligated to attend our sacramental Confession. That can bring up some interesting moments even as I prepare for it, moments which touch on what I've just said.

The last time I went, for whatever reason, things were going slow. It was taking forever (well, a comparative forever, not, of course, literal forever) and I found myself getting impatient and upset. What have all these folks done that it's taking so long? What can the priest possibly be telling them that keeps the line from moving? It finally hit me that my convenience wasn't the point. The people were telling what they had to tell and Father was saying what he needed to say. And I had just, I suppose, found something else I needed to confess.

No Daylight Savings

This weekend, early tomorrow morning in fact, we 'fall back' to regain the hour we lost in the spring. There's talk about keeping Daylight Savings Time year round. I don't like the idea.

I know there are complaints about the early evenings which are coming, but do we actually want sunrises after Nine AM for around six weeks in these parts? I don't. I far prefer the sun in the morning than late afternoon. What sun we get anyways, these also being the cloudy, dreary days of the year too.

But, whatever. We take what we get I suppose. Not much you or I can do about it, is there?

Halloween 2023

Another Halloween has come and gone in Woodbridge. We think we had over 300 trick or treaters, which seems down but was still a good number.

One of the nice things about living in an old style neighborhood are days like Halloween. There's lots of activity and quite a few houses passing out candy. And people, trick or treaters and parents and neighbors were all kind and courteous. It's a good feeling.

Happy Belated Halloween all. I hope yours was good.

Second Curling

We didn't play very well last night. I think it was 12-4; whatever it was, it wasn't good. Still, I'm curling, and continuing to be welcomed back. That feels really, really good.

The game is great, but it truly is the people. Best fraternity I've ever been in, I tell you what.

My disappointment in my play was greatly lessened by the discovery that the curling club has Coffee Crisp candy bars. They're coffee nougat between crunchy wafers, covered in chocolate. I bought 4; I haven't had them in years. 

They're still great. If you can't win, take solace in coffee and chocolate, I say.

Oh The Pain

Years ago I realized that aging meant hurting myself in ways and manners I couldn't expect. Once I turned to answer someone, just a simple twist of the torso, and my back went out. Lovely.

You know how us Catholics like ritual, even quick, brief ones, right? Yesterday I approached a pew in Church and began to genuflect, exactly as I have for years. And I pulled a muscle in my leg.

The muscle on the top of my thigh popped. The pain was awful; I wasn't sure I could get up. Then, of course, I had to sit down, stand up, sit down again, stand up, kneel, blah, blah, blah as Mass went on. Being obstinate, I had to go through all the motions. Irish Catholic guilt is still a real thing, folks.

I may be using a delivery stick when curling tomorrow night. But it does feel better this morning though.

Sorryness

Me Grandpa Joe, while not exactly the most cautious worker himself, nevertheless coined the word 'sorryness' to describe a worker who wasn't considerate enough about his tools and equipment as he earned his daily bread. I think it's a useful addition to the language.

I've seen it at the old barn for years. One fella, more than one actually, would use the power unit of their drain snake as a cart for their cables, something you should never do. You can easily damage parts on the unit. Guys were routinely breaking off the toggles on the reverse switches doing that, then complaining about the quality of the switch when I'd charge them fifty bucks each to replace them. Then they'd do the same thing again, continuing to wrongfully use the machine as a dolly. Sorryness.

Other times on many different machines guys would break capacitor covers or switch boxes off their motors simply due to abuse. They weren't taking proper caution or time loading, unloading, or in the general use of their snakes. Then just as with the reverse switches, they try to blame the quality of the unit. Sorryness.

There's your English lesson today, friends, courtesy of Joe Cosgriff. You're already thinking of when to use the word, aren't you?

Just Wondering

Is a nuclear powered ship a fission boat?

Yeah, I like that one. Too much, probably. Happy Friday! 

That's Entertainment

I've said before that I don't always understand book reviews. One person on Amazon gave me three out of five stars for my Family Lore blog collection, saying:

There is nothing really to learn from this book other than just reading it as pure entertainment.

Um, Okay. I'm not sure that I was trying to teach anything but merely attempting to entertain as it is. In fact, teaching anything at all was nowhere near the front of my mind in putting that collection together. So, reading a book meant to entertain and admittedly 'pure entertainment' merits only 3 stars out of 5? What's wrong with mere entertainment anyway?

At times I just don't get book reviewers at all.

The Day After the Day After Curling

Today's blog may be a bit heavy on curling jargon, and I hope that non-curlers among my readership will forgive that. But this past Monday I began a new curling season with the Windsor Granite Club. It felt good.

It's subject to be a melancholy year. The Club is almost certainly closing after the 2023-2024 season, which is one of the reasons I decided to play. The Granite Club was *my* Club, so to speak, for around 25 years. When I heard the bad news I simply had to play there once more. A swan song, I guess, which, short of a minor miracle, it will be.

You want to talk about a happy homecoming? I can't tell you how many old friends offered a handshake with a hearty, "Great to have you back, Marty!" as the evening went on. It's humbling, it really is. 

I've said before, here, in fact: Just Stay Away that it's easy not to miss curling. Just don't go to a curling rink. One step onto the ice Monday, one thrown stone coming to rest exactly where I wanted it to, and all the old fire was stoked. Right now kapow.

My skip, a great old friend, wanted me to throw second and call the game. That was amazingly kind and complimentary of him. Once in the Curling House, the 12 foot circle which serves as our scoring target, I found that I was reading the ice very well and must confess that I'm far too pleased with the game I called. Me skip and I only had one serious strategic difference of opinion, but we went with his shot choice and, well, things happen.

I think I threw all right for being rusty; I've only curled two or four games a year recently but my weight (the force put into delivering the curling rock) felt good. By my count I only badly missed two shots; the other 14 were at the least useable. I pitched one pretty wide. That's been a problem of mine for most of my career.

We finished second 10-7 but won four ends. The guys around me played well. I was not and am not anywhere near as sore as I expected to be. I'm achy but that's about it. I think it helped that I made a concession to reality and bought a delivery stabilizer which allowed me to use my left arm to help hold my lard bucket self upright while throwing a stone, taking pressure and thus future pain from my legs. Of course, now all the Internet wants to show me are ads for delivery stabilizers, but that's another story.

So the verdict? I'm looking forward to next Monday. Very much indeed.

Carbonation Connoiseur

When I was drinking beer, I became familiar with many different styles and brands of that fermented beverage. But I don't drink anymore. I've adopted another drink: flavored carbonated water. Somewhat like beer, I discovered that there are many flavor options in that area.

The absolute best I've found is WalMart's Orange Cream. It tastes just like those old orange cream ice creams we ate out of toilet paper rolls as kids. Push Pops, I think they were called, because there was a plastic stick which you used to force the ice cream out. WalMart has a Red, White, and Blue mix of fruit flavors which is good too.

If Dollar General is to your liking, their house brand (Cloverdale, I think?) has a blood orange carbonated water which is outstanding. I had never heard of a blood orange, and I still haven't actually sought out and tasted one. But I like the artificial flavor of blood orange. DG's black cherry is great too.

Family Dollar's house brand, Silver Falls, has a strawberry kiwi water which is almost in a class by itself. They have a wild cherry which is great as well. Aldi's has a couple flavors of carbonated water too, but as I'm not at Aldi's very often I can't think of their flavors this minute.

Wait! Yes I can! Cranberry. They have a cranberry which is well worth the 64 cents per liter.

So there you have it. Everything is competitive and innovative these days, including carbonated waters. I'm having a good time discovering that.

Already Feeling It

Tonight I play my first regular season curling game in, I think, 6 years. I've played occasionally during that time, perhaps 2 or 4 matches a year, and I'm looking forward to it. For one, there's the anticipation of the routine of curling once a week. Two, it'll be great to see the guys again. Then there's the pain I will almost surely be in come Tuesday morning.

Okay, I'm not exactly looking forward to the oncoming aches. Yet they are oncoming and I do feel them. It's not unlike when you drop a hammer. There's that instant before impact where your toe already hurts. Similarly, both my legs feel sore right now and game time is 15 hours away as I write.

Wish me luck. We'll see what tomorrow actually brings, uh, tomorrow. Maybe it won't be too bad. Pain killers are pretty good these days. 

Holding On

His voice was tired and weak. An old friend had called just to chat; among what we spoke about were his upcoming medical tests. "They're looking at my heart, Marty. I don't know what they expect to find." He sounded sad, alone, and isolated, if that makes sense.

I begin to understand the despondency which seems to come with age. This friend, a man I've know over 50 years now, was clearly feeling down not just physically but psychologically too. And I began to feel down for him. It does make you think just that much harder about the passing of time, of things gone by never, it may feel, to be again. With that comes doubt. Doubt is scary.

C. S. Lewis I believe spoke of obstinancy in belief. If I take it rightly he meant that sometimes all we can do is hold on tight to what we know is true and damn the torpedoes. There are days when that's just all we have. In this case, it means remembering that this world, though important, isn't the end. We have a journey here and what we do and say and think and experience is critical. Yet it isn't all. There is more, and greater, on the horizon.

I promised my old buddy prayers and I will say them. I will also try very hard to be obstinate. I hope he can be too.

The Jury's Out

Me Pops had an old friend - I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name - who happened to be a prison guard at one point in his life. He used his position to get out of jury duty once. In fact, he used it so well that he got a whole bunch of folks off that day.

Dad couldn't recall the details of the trial, but it was an important one and the judge and the lawyers were having a very difficult time empaneling twelve hopefully open minded and rational people. When they were up to 11 jurors which everyone agreed upon, Cloyce's name was pulled. He took a seat among those the group.

The judge's very first question to Cloyce was typical. "Do you know anyone in this courtroom?"

"Well," Cloyce began, "I know the defendant from his being an inmate when I was a jail guard."

The judge's shoulders slumped as his chin hit his chest. He would have to dismiss the entire jury because they were all potentially biased against the defendant as they then knew he'd been imprisoned. Quickly enough the defense attorney moved for exactly that; the entire process would have to begin anew.

"I guess I mighta said too much," Cloyce allowed. "But those other jurors didn't seem to mind at all."

Money Left Over

My first stop yesterday was in the western part of Michigan, namely the town of Allegan. The good folks at Allegan Rentals wanted a cutting blade; as I was to be in the area for other things I took it to them.

The owner asked if I wanted a check or to send one, then said he'd just go ahead and pay. Stepping into his office he came back with a $19 check. 

Me brother Phil was with me. At being handed the check I turned to him and said, "Looks like you'll be getting paid this week."

"And you'll have money left over," he quipped without missing a beat.

Marty Diet

For lunch yesterday I ran through a Wendy's drive through. Okay, all right, I did not run. They frown on that. I drove my new old van. But you get the point.

As I typically do, I ordered far too much food. It was the Baconator meal, large size. Now here comes a joke for you to make, a fat pitch I'm quite confident you can drill over the fence. The one in the deepest regions of the ballpark in fact. I can even see the eye rolls which will accompany what you're about to read. It's okay. Swing at the fat pitch and roll those eyes. I would. I know Ron would.

Baconators have all that stuff which is no good for you. Most doctors say don't eat it; I'm certain mine would. Two quarter pound pieces of red meat on a huge buttered bun with gloriously melted cheese, a large fries along with it, topped with gallons of ketchup and mayo. And bacon, of course. Salty, crispy, yummy bacon. 

My drink? A Diet Coke.

It was too much food. I don't know the calorie count and I don't care. Too much. But I order Diet Coke with such blatantly bad food because I like the taste. Honest. And, full disclosure, I suppose it does help ameliorate the calories. Somewhat. But I genuinely like the taste.

Did you just roll your eyes at me?

Lack of Information

While in New York last month I took a call from a good customer who had a broken drain snake which, of course, he wished to have fixed. I told him I'd have me brother Phil pick it up.

After the call I texted me brother, 'Go pick up a machine for repair please'. 

A minute later he replied, "Okay. Pick up what and from who?"

I suppose he would need to know that. I still wrote him up for being impertinent though.

Enough is Enough

Me Pops had this old friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who apparently did not have the best marriage.

A couple of years after Cloyce lost his wife, the woman's sister's husband passed away. Awhile after the funeral, Cloyce got a call from his former in-law. She suggested that, with their respected spouses gone, perhaps they could get together.

"What did you say?" Pops asked on being told the story.

"I told her no," Cloyce responded. "I said I spent 40 years with your sister, and that was enough."

"Ouch," Dad said. "That even hurt me."

Monday Knee Slapper

You know that famous Simon and Garfunkel song The Sound of Silence? I just pulled it up on You Tube and hit the mute button. Yep. I watched The Sound of Silence without sound. Clever, eh?

No, you're right. That's just stupid. I'll go lock myself in my room with the light off. Hello darkness, my old friend.

Come on, now, with your week starting off with this it's bound to get better.

Running Along

This morning at approximately 7:30 we will begin seeing, cyclists first, then runners scurrying through Woodbridge, my neighborhood in Detroit. They will be frantically attempting to escape some keenly felt yet unseen and rather undefined danger, this being Detroit and the bulk of them being suburbanites.

All right, that's not fair, this morning anyway. It's the annual Detroit Free Press Marathon. It's running down Avery, right in front of my house, for the third straight year.

It is quite the compliment that Woodbridge is thought of so highly that it's become an integral part of the run. Mom thoroughly enjoyed it the first year it passed in 2021, although I don't think she understood what was happening. But that's okay, Mom. I'm not sure I get the point of it either. Running simply for the fun of it? That's borderline psychotic.

It is odd to see Avery barren of cars; they clear the streets to give the participants more room. I'll spend several hours watching from the front porch swing, hot pumpkin spice coffee in hand, and try to hang out until the final stragglers pass sometime around Noon. But with the cold I'm fighting I may surrender early and burrow under the eight blankets on my bed, and simply listen to the folks as they trod past. It's supposed to be cold and wet this morning and I can't seem to warm up enough this weekend, drat the timing. But there's always next year, and I'll be happy enough with what I do see. Sometimes it is just the sense of event which is entertaining.

Cold, Dark, and Drizzly

Oh my. It's dark. And it's 7 AM.

I like October. It really is my favorite month. But I don't care for the lack of sunshine. And it's going to get worse.

Maybe October isn't all that after all. Or maybe the cold I seem to have is affecting my judgement.

What Happens Next

Yesterday morning as I unpacked a parts order from Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs) I discovered that I had overordered by about 30 the number of spanner wrenches which I normally stock. A spanner in this case is used to disconnect drain snake cables from one another. I assume you want to know that.

A surplus of those tools isn't a bad thing. They're relatively inexpensive, about nine bucks a pop, and are a routine sell, so it doesn't hurt to have the extras. Opening the middle right drawer of my work desk, I dropped the bag of wrenches in. 

We know what's going to happen next, don't we?

We don't? Then let me tell us.

In the coming weeks and months, every time I open that drawer I'll shove that bag of spanners back, looking for whatever else I may have been seeking from inside my desk. In time, papers and detritus, the flotsam and jetsam of business, will begin to cover over the wrenches until they are camouflaged beyond the discovery of the most able spy.

Three years will pass, maybe four, and I'll be looking in the desk for umpteenth time for something entirely unrelated when that bag of spanners will again see the light of day. And I will ask myself in total and complete surprise, "How did those get back there?"

Anyone care to take a bet on that? I'll give you good odds.

The Fiftieth Cosgriff

Although it does not happen so much as it once did, I will still occasionally get a robocall aimed at me Pops. That's not surprising, seeing as I use the same business number from when he started up in 1966.

You've gotten them, I'm sure, where the computer voice begins, "This is a call for" after which there is a brief pause before the apparently same voice fills in, in this case, "William Cosgriff" before proceeding. Naturally enough I hang up on them.

One call did make me raise an eyebrow. "This is a call for," the voice started, then said, "William the Fiftieth Cosgriff." I was perplexed, even intrigued, yet went ahead and hung up.

A couple days later, and then again after that, calls came in for William the Fiftieth Cosgriff. I nearly hit 'one' to take the call. I was that curious. Then I remembered: his middle name being Leo, there were times where he sent things out as William L. Cosgriff. 'L' is the Roman numeral for 50. The artificially generated voice was translating the capital L as a form of fifty.

Sometimes artificial intelligence is as dumb as regular human intelligence.

Distractions

I had a box in my front hall yesterday which I wanted to take to the Shop. But I walked out of the house and into my new old van and drove off without it.

Heavy, disgruntled sigh. I loop the block and park in front of the house and get out of the van. 

My cell rings. I take the call, start chatting with an old friend on the other end, walk up onto the porch, unlock the door, and step inside the house. The conversation goes on another minute or two and we hang up.

Putting the phone in my pocket, I take out my keys, head out the door, lock it, and get back in the van heading towards the old barn. Without the box.

Heavier, disgruntleder sigh. 

I went back home. I did not forget the box a third time. 

The All Starrs

Well, he doesn't bill them as an All Starr band for nothing. Along with Ringo this past Saturday were:

Steve Lukather and Warren Ham from Toto. They performed Roseanna, Africa, and, one of my all time favorite rockers, Hold the Line.

Colin Hay from Men at Work. The band did Overkill, Who Can it be Now?, and Down Under.

Hamish Stuart from the Average White Band, who led everyone in Pick Up the Pieces and Cut the Cake.

Edgar Winter. I thought I liked alliteration; he killed his intros to everyone on stage with it! Of course, the band played Winter's Frankenstein, which may just have the coolest guitar intro ever. If interested, have a listen: Frankenstein It rocked the Masonic.

Ringo Starr and his All Starr Band. Great, great show.

Ringo Sings

Ringo Starr and his All Starr Band put on an excellent show this past Saturday in Detroit. It opened with Ringo doing a cover of Carl Perkins' rockabilly classic Matchbox. He had done the song as a Beatle and I've always loved it. It really got the crowd going, which I guess was the point, eh?

Ringo did several of his standards from both his Beatle and solo days, all of which you would expect. Octopus's Garden, Boys (the crowd, including yours truly, got well into the bop-shu-wop, bop-bop-shu-whop) Act Naturally, A Little Help From My Friends (in part directed as a thank you towards his All Starrs), and, of course, Yellow Submarine, which had great audience participation. He also sang What Goes On from the Beatles. It's the only Beatles song credited to Lennon-McCartney-Starkey, he pointed out to the crowd, and a pretty good B-side to the Nowhere Man single.

From his solo days came It Don't Come Easy, Back Off Boogaloo, I'm the Greatest (written by John Lennon, who thought Ringo would bring the right attitude to a self effacing tune) and Photograph. A lot of people sang along with these standards; it added great enjoyment to the concert air.

Ringo clearly picked things to please the crowd. And you know what? He did. 

All right, I haven't been to many concerts at all. But this was absolutely the best.

Sir Richard

I don't have a bucket list, but that doesn't mean there aren't things I like to do. One of those happened last night. I saw Beatle drummer Ringo Starr perform.

The Beatles have always been my favorite band. Since they had broke up when I was 10 there was never an opportunity to see them as an act. Yet even seeing one of them live was not something I ever imagined.

Well, me son and daughter in law solved that. I can't thank Charlie and Tarina enough for the tickets. It was a great show - more on that later; any decent blog writer knows it's advantageous to stretch his material - and a greater treat than I would have expected to actually see a music legend perform in concert.

Sir Richard Starkey, Ringo's real name and title (he's been knighted, you know) did some standards and played drums on several others. Again, more on that in due time. But, man, I saw a Beatle live. That was pretty cool.

Unless I Have To

Never will I ever, outside of having no other choice:

Drive an electric car. I hate that society through government power is trying to make us drive them, and is trying force the auto industry to make them. Nature is a lot more resilient than we think; climate change is not destroying the Earth. Besides, as P.J. O'Rourke said ages ago about fossil fuels, "Fat lot of good they did lying in the ground for millions of years."

Saturday rant over.

The Years Go By

I've long been told that the older we get, the faster time flies. I think it's true.

A year ago at this time I looked forward to a Hessel trip this past May. Now that and two other visits have come and gone. I've seen baseball games in two new stadiums. A long anticipated trip to New York City is three weeks in the rear view mirror. And now I'm back to pining for the next trip. Next trips.

I try to live in the moment anymore. That helps, but the moments still go. Even at that, I do believe I appreciate them more. 

I sound as though I'm talking out of both sides of my mouth. I suppose I am. I honestly don't feel melancholy as I think about the past four or five months. It's more a realization that, as I become an old timer myself, the old timers were right. Time does fly. Enjoy the minute.

I guess you just gotta get old to appreciate it, eh?

Temper Temper

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.

Wild Cards

I've established that me Pops liked to play poker and that he held regular Saturday night games way back when. I asked him once whether he ever held a royal flush, the AKQJ10 all of the same suit. It's the highest poker hand possible, typically. He held royal flushes twice. Yet he lost one time with one anyway.

The games were almost always at his house, and his house rule was that the dealer called the game they were to play while he dealt. Typically it was a standard round of poker and only varied by whether it was draw or stud (don't worry about what those are as it's not important to the story). But he had this one friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who liked to do things differently. Cloyce invariably introduced wild cards into the game.

He might call the well known deuces wild, where twos could be any card you needed them to be. Or it might be one-eyed jacks and suicide kings were wild. He would sometimes call baseball, where threes and nines were wilds. Dad hated such variations. But he felt that in fairness he had to allow them.

Once when Cloyce called for wild cards, me Pops ended up with a true royal flush: 10 through ace, all hearts. No wild cards. Yet he lost to someone holding five sevens: three actual sevens with two wild cards.

That grated him, and I understand why. I think you ought to play the cards true myself. But fair is fair, and at least it wasn't Cloyce who held the five of a kind.

Tigers Go Out With a Win

I realize that the attention of most Detroit sports fans is on the Lions right now, and I get that. It's October, and the baseball Tigers (other than with Miguel Cabrera's retirement, which sold out Comerica Park yesterday) weren't going anywhere while the football team looks more promising than it has in ages. But, for me, it's still more about baseball, and there's always a tinge of sadness when the Tigers are done for the year.

When that last out is made, there's a finality which I rarely experience elsewhere. Listening to yesterday's game on the radio in the garage at Hessel, I sighed as they went to commercial when the game had ended. With the push of a button came the realization there would be no more Hessel baseball until about May next year. But the 5-2 win over Cleveland left us in second place even with the mediocre record of 78-64. And like the Lions, I think there are better days ahead.

For starters, if you take away the AL East against whom the Tigers were an abysmal 3-17 (or about that; I'm too lazy to look it up this morning) they had a winning record. Lift that figure to .500 and they would have been in playoff contention until late. The pitching has looked good. Even if Eduardo Rodriguez doesn't return we have several other reliable arms, plus Casey Mize returning from Tommy John surgery. I don't know what that is myself but it's saved a lot of careers. If we can improve upon hitting (the team was batting .233 last time I checked, a far from impressive number) we can compete in 2024, especially in our weak division.

Spencer Torkleson had a breakout year and Kerry Carpenter looks like the real deal. If Riley Greene is available after his own Tommy John surgery, seeing him in an outfield with Parker Meadows will allow the team to cover a lot of ground out there. Get another bat too, boys. Maybe a pair.

Yes, there's still another month of baseball and I will watch my share of it. But 2024 is stacking up to be interesting for the Tigers, and I will be pining for it.

A Different World

It's sometimes hard to appreciate how different the same place can be. 

I don't notice the change in seasons in and around home all that much. They're so slow and subtle that by the time you realize that the Sun isn't rising until 7:30 in the morning it isn't rising until 7:50. You don't get that it's been setting well before 8 until it's setting at 6:45. Then I visit Hessel in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula in late September and the differences from the Fourth of July, the last time I was here, are stark.

Yesterday I was star gazing at 6 AM. No sign of old Sol, not even a hint that he might be prowling about. But the stars were out in force even with a nearly full Moon, if you looked in the right direction. At the same time in July the Sun has obliterated the full Moon by almost a half hour. I've taken my morning walks then as early as 5, in a reasonable amount of dawn color.

Last night I went to the 6:30 Mass in Detour, around 35 minutes east of Hessel, for my Sunday obligation. Yeah, I know, like me Uncle Charles used to tease, I'm really a Seventh Day Adventist. That's funny if you appreciate religious humor. But however that may be, by the time Mass was over and I was making the drive back to Hessel, while it wasn't exactly dark it was surely the evening twilight. And it was dark by the time I was back at the house just after 8. 8 PM in Hessel three months ago? We would still have daylight for nearly two more hours, and twilight until about 11.

It's still great because it's still Hessel. It just doesn't look like it.

Chasing Sanborn

I really don't know why, but Chase and Sanborn has become my coffee of choice. Which means of course that it's been getting more difficult to find.

For a couple of years I could rely on Ollie's Discount Stores (Good stuff cheap!) to have it. Perhaps that ought to have served as a warning. Being available in a discount place might have been a bad sign.

Cedarville Foods in Hessel in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula stocks it, enough so that in my trips Up North this year I bought ahead. I should be all right through 2024 as of now. But what about after?

Again, however, I don't actually know how or why I latched onto the stuff. I doubt I could pick it successfully in a blind taste test. Did Chase and Sanborn subconsciously become my Hessel coffee due to association? Maybe. Yet I don't recall where I first discovered it. It wasn't necessarily while in da UP ya know.

I'm not anywhere near sure when I began drinking it. And I know in my mind that I'll just drink something else if I never find C & S (what we mavens call it) again. I will in time forget about it. Yet I would be curious to find out exactly why I became stuck on it in the first place.

Random Friday

Did you know that Darth Vader's mother's name was Ella? 

Sorry, Mom.

Did you know that if a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, it does make a sound? Sound is in the waves created by an action, not the receptor of the action.

Did you know, uh, did you know, uh...sorry folks, that's all I got today. But as bloggers are supposed to blog every day, here it is.

Let's see if Saturday is any better.

What Would Heinrich Do?

Heinrich Himmler was the head of the Gestapo during World War II. Most of you know that I'm sure, but I needed to establish the fact just the same.

I peruse many messages boards on subjects of interest to me where questions are asked and experts answer. As a student of history many of the places I frequent address people and events from the past. A favorite is a site about the Second World War.

Most of the questions are rather broad ranged. What were the German aims in the War? Why did they attack Russia? Things like that. Some are speculative. If Hitler hadn't declared war on the United States, how would that have affected the outcome? If the US only fought Japan, how would things have turned out? Some queries are technical: How close were the Nazis to an atomic bomb? What were the fiercest weapons used? Others ask about the specifics in battles. You get the point. There's a wide array of inquiries.

One unusual question the other day stopped me in my mental tracks. It was, What was Heinrich Himmler's management style?

It took me a few minutes to process the query, all of it broken with stilted laughter as I stared at my computer screen. His management style? He was the head of the bloody Gestapo. I suppose it was something along the lines of, you do this or it's the firing squad! 

Was this an honest question or some kind of trolling? I hope it was trolling, high schools seniors being stupid.

There was an attempt at a serious answer by the way. It basically said, Himmler's management style was top down and detail oriented. I label that understatement.

Less Healthy

"You ever had deep fried Twinkies?" me brother Phil asked me the other day.

"Can't say I have."

"I was going into a restaurant one day and there was a sign which said, We have deep fried Twinkies," he explained. "So I bought one."

"Was it any good?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"Why'd you try it? Curiosity?" I asked.

"I suppose," Phil answered. "But mainly I wondered, how can they make something unhealthy even more unhealthy?"

Yeah, you do wonder if there was a brainstorming session for that.

Don't Ask Me

Now, before I start I want to establish that I'm not talking about innocuous questions such as what color to paint a room or what I think about an outfit or a sport or a book. Those are generally matters of taste and I'm happy to leave them at that. But with regard to The Great Questions, questions about how to act or what to do in serious situations, that's what I'm addressing here.

Far too many folks these days begin a presumably serious, introspective discussion with something like, "Be honest, because there's no right or wrong answer."

Here's my painfully honest and arguably harsh response. 

Don't bother me with the damn question then. If you aren't trying to find out what's really, truly, actually right or really, truly, hideously wrong with a venture or outlook then we ain't got nothing to talk about. If there really is no 'wrong' answer then it don't matter what we do. And if there is a right answer, the statement is hypocritical nonsense, if not downright Orwellian, dangerous to our growth and well being as persons. It's as simple as that.

People wonder what's wrong with the world. I can tell you that readily. It comes from answering questions as though there's no right or wrong answer.

Pennsylvania Autumn

Driving back from New York City last weekend, I noticed that the trees in Pennsylvania had already begun to turn. There wasn't a ton of color, and most of it was at it or near the tops. But reds and oranges were poking about the green.

It didn't seem normal to me. Last Monday when travelling it was still technically summer. If you were to draw a line directly east from Detroit, I would have been south of it. There's been no sign of fall colors here.

Don't get me wrong. It was nice to see and broke up the journey, which is great when traversing Pennsylvania. It always seems to take an inordinate amount of time to cross, even though it's only 310 miles. I drive just about that far (306 miles) on the freeway going to Hessel in da UP. Why does it feel longer on Interstate 80 through the Keystone State?

The simple answer is that it's Pennsylvania and not Michigan. I'm used to Michigan, so the time doesn't seem the same. But I appreciate Pennsylvania's effort to make the journey more pleasant.

Citi Field

Last Sunday me and me son Frank saw the Cincinnati Reds play the New York Mets at the home of the Mets, Citi Field. It's in Queens in New York City. Yeah, I keep hearing the King of Queens theme too.

It sits right next to where Shea Stadium, the second home of the Mets, had been. The team had played their first two years at the Polo Grounds, which the Giants called home before they high-tailed it to San Francisco. A commemorative home plate is set in the Citi parking lot where Shea's plate had been. So too are the bases and the pitching rubber marked out. It's a nice tribute; we checked them out.

I like the new stadium. The seats everywhere are reasonably close to the field, just like at PNC Park in Pittsburgh and new Yankee Stadium in the Bronx. You can really tell the difference between them and Comerica Park here in the D, where the seats are noticeably farther from the diamond. I realize it was built a few years earlier than those three and that perhaps technology changed in that time, but man, the Detroit Tigers dropped the ball bad on that issue. Watching a game here can feel like the players are in a canyon compared to the others I mention. 

Citi Field is totally enclosed. I like that. No tripe about the wonderful view: I go to a baseball game to see baseball, not aN unrelated vista no matter how grand. The amenities were great; the Mets museum in particular was a joy to behold. When you get chills like I did seeing things from another team's history, you appreciate that the game is more important than the teams.

So I recommend it. If you're in The Big Apple and have the chance, go to Citi Field. New Yankee Stadium I highly recommend too.