The Big City

After spending this past weekend in Toronto, and after having spent time in New York in my more or less recent personal history, I have to admit that large cities do have their appeal. It's something I would never have conceded, well, not that long ago.

They can be vibrant; there are certainly things happening and things to do. Walkable downtowns, a term I would have scoffed at, again, not that long ago, are enticing and entertaining. They offer stuff to do without the worry of parking, or of getting here to there in good time. I have to imagine you could keep yourself busy as well as fed and amused with a wide variety of opportunities within easy range for many weeks.

There are downsides. Perhaps it's simply because I was there most recently, but Toronto has a lot of people. A. Lot. It felt more crowded than NYC, and New York City is packed. That walkable downtown did have its own share of pedestrian traffic jams and human walls. Too, there were noticeable homeless camps, and homeless in the streets, many clearly with issues. You feel for them, but what can one person do at a given moment?

The relative calm of Detroit is more my style city wise, and even that pales compared to the laid back joy of Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula. Yet a part of me wouldn't mind living in a high rise in New York or Toronto for, oh, maybe a year, just to swim in the lifestyle of the big city for a bit.

Many Miles To Go

Technology on the whole is great. The rental car which I drove to Toronto rode smooth as silk, and the gas mileage was great. I didn't have to fill up in Canada. That was good, considering their gas prices.

Still, I needed to fill the tank before returning the car. After seeing to that chore, I of course sat back down behind the wheel and fired it up. I was immediately told that my then average miles per gallon was 10.3.

But I hadn't moved. I was still sitting there at the pump; I hadn't even put it into gear. Yet somehow I was getting a little over ten miles per gallon.

I can't figure that bit of technology out.

Overthinking

At the end of this past curling season I won a door prize of a $10 gift card for Shoppers Drug Mart. It's a Canadian drug store chain, so I would have to spend it in Canada. No big deal; I'm there often enough.

The silly thing is, I began tying myself in knots mentally about when I'd use it and what I'd buy. This was special, I was thinking. It must be used wisely. It must be spent on exactly the right thing. I was treating the card as some sort of golden ticket rather than the effective ten dollar bill which is all it really was. 

Being in Toronto (which conveniently is in Canada) this past weekend, I finally spent it. As me son Frank and I made our way about town Saturday afternoon we stumbled upon a Shoppers. We stopped in and bought a pop and a snack each, and blew the card. Why? Because I finally told myself it was stupid to 'save' it. We were thirsty and vaguely hungry. Use the card.

The really dumb part was how relieved I was afterward. It was a weight off my shoulders, a burden lifted, to actually have spent that gift card. Silliness. But how better can you use a gift than with family on a short vacation? 

I really have to stop overanalyzing.

Roger That

Rogers Centre, and from where I'm at centre is spelled correctly I assure you, is the home baseball stadium of the Toronto Blue Jays in Ontario, Canada. Me son Frank and I picked it up last night as part of our years long stadium tour. We try to attend a ball game at one new site each season.

Rogers Centre is the first retractable roof stadium, opening in 1989. The roof can be opened for good weather while closed when conditions are poor. They weren't poor yesterday but it was chilly, so it was closed.

The stadium is nice, thought it's a bit weird to see baseball indoors. As Frank remarked, baseball seems intended for the open air. Still, the sight lines were good all over, and we felt reasonably close to the action. The top level where we sat looks steeper than it is but not so much when you're actually seated.

The Jays hosted the Los Angeles Dodgers, who won 12-2. Not a pretty game for the hometown nine.

Stadium amenities were good, and prices weren't bad. Our hot dogs (you gotta have a dog at a ball game) were $6.75 each, but as Canadian money is at a discount against US funds they came out to $5.10 I think through the use of our American debit cards. My souvenir Toronto baseball cap cost $49 from a Canadian start of $67, so prices were comparable to what you would pay in the States. I choked at the $490 tag on an authentic Toronto Blue Jays jersey (Frank said I audibly gasped) but I wasn't going to buy one anyway.

The park was very clean, and felt older than it is. As I said, it opened in 1989, making it I believe the fifth oldest baseball venue in use in the major leagues. It's not the best ball yard, but I do like it. I kind of expected not to. I thought it would be a concrete and steel monster, yet it was rather homey in its own way.

Would I go back? Sure. After all, it is baseball. And I am curious to see the place with the roof open.

VW

I won't say that I drive old cars. I don't have to: everyone who knows me knows that. But some are quirky in a way which is actually kind of cool.

For a while back in 2007 or so I had an old Volkwagen, not a beetle, but a boxy brown car which was sort of a compact type. A Golf, in fact. That's what it was. A Volkswagen Golf. A 1987 Volkswagen Golf.

It ran very well and the gas mileage was outstanding. But coolest of all was that it had stamped into the wheel well under the hood, "Made in West Germany". I was driving a car in 2007 made in a country that no longer existed.

I take pride in things like that.

 

The Housing Market

My mailman was kind enough to deliver to me the latest bit of drivel from my local Congressional representative, who proclaimed within it that safe and affordable housing is a right. I am not enlightened.

The trouble with rights is that they imply obligations. If you have a right to something, who is obliged to fill that right? After all, if a certain nondescript fellow (whom we'll call Cloyce just to give him a name) has a right to a safe and affordable house, well, mine is safe and affordable. Do I have to give it to Cloyce?

Oh, don't be silly, Marty. Of course not.

Well, okay, then, how about the heavy machinists and the carpenters and the electricians and the heating and plumbing contractors who actually build homes? Do they have to build Cloyce a home for free? And do the folks who make the materials which go into home building have to supply the lumber and wire and ductwork and lighting gratis as well?

Come on, Marty, of course not.

Well, then, who does have come up with the house? Who owes Cloyce a safe, affordable home, since it's his right ? Who must deliver on that right? Don't say the government, because that's just a longhand way of saying me, and we've already established I don't owe Cloyce a home.

And that's the trouble when you begin bandying about rights. If you aren't ready and willing to talk rationally about obligations as well, Congressional representative, you're just blowing smoke. 

I Don't Get It

I'm going to be him: I'm going to be that guy. I don't care. I think it has to be said.

Have we become such party animals that so mundane a trifle as a sports draft is literally tying our streets in knots? The NFL, the National Football League to you who don't know (and I have been surprised by the number of folks who don't know and, thankfully, don't care; there is hope for the world), is holding its player draft in Detroit this week. And the city is teeming with visitors and all sorts of temporary construction is happening and streets are being closed...so teams can choose who can play for them?

To begin with, and I mean this quite seriously, why a draft of players? Why can't they select who they want to have a catch with? Isn't it some form of involuntary servitude to say that if you want to play with us you have to play with who we (those in power) say you have to play for? I'm willing to argue that there's a real moral wrong at work here.

Then there's all the stuff and nonsense surrounding the thing. I get it, to a point, anyway, when sportsball is happening, a Super Bowl or what not. But we're not even talking about an actual game or event here. We're talking about, at best, an eenie, meenie, minee, moe: who picks who first and so on. It's inane, and I mean that quite seriously too, to force all this hullaballoo on a community for such ultimately meaningless drivel. 

When bread and circuses have devolved to this point, friends, I have to honestly wonder whether our national priorities are anywhere near right. Yet judging by the recent history of these United States, perhaps this is a symptom of a greater disease.

Truly Sublime

Here I am, touting my own writing. How gauche, but my blog, my rules.

Still, here's a cool review of my 'memoir' The Sublime to the Ridiculous

Kidding aside, it's pretty much what I intended about the collection. It's available here: STTR

Kindle only just yet, but I hope to have a print edition ready soon!

The Day Dawns

When I bought a copy of Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, the noted Beatles album from 1967, I found a gem. I especially liked the song When I'm 64, a Paul McCartney tune which is the second track on side two. 64; that was a long time off for a twelve year old.

Not so much now. Today I hit that milestone, fifty some years after first hearing the song. When I get older? I am older. Losing my hair? Oh, yeah. Many years from now? Not anymore.

But I'm living the life. All my years humming that tune, and here we are. Thank you, Lord.

Looney Sunday

I discovered last night that a cable station is having a Looney Toons - Merrie Melodies marathon this weekend. Man, I had almost forgotten how laugh out loud hilarious all those old Warner Brothers shorts could be.

First there was The Old Grey Hare, where Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd were transported all the way to the year 2000 - 2000, showing how old the old toons were - for them to see how their relationship ended. No spoiler here, but dynamite was involved.

Ever see Duck Amuck? If you haven't you need to. The animator puts Daffy Duck through all kinds of bizarre situations which you have to see to believe. And who, it turns out, was that artist? 

There was stone age Elmer who sounded like Jack Benny. I saw the Three Little Bops, narrated in jazz style by Stan Freberg. Hilarious. Foghorn Leghorn painted a dog's tongue green. Uh, you had to see it. But it was the sort of thing which leaves the viewer asking, 'People got paid to write that?'.

Of course, there was What's Opera, Doc?, one of the few where Elmer got the best of Bugs. It's classic.

The marathon lasts until 6 tomorrow, Monday, morning. Don't bother me the rest of the day.

Pleading the Fourth

This one might make a better Sunday entry, but as I have to get a few things done at the old barn this Saturday and feel a bit inspired by it this minute, I'll put it out there today.

We all know the Ten Commandments. An old priest once explained to me that they're a hierarchy: though they are each tremendously important in their own right, the lower the number, the more significant it is.

The first three deal with our relationship with God. The other seven concern our relationship with each other. And what's the first of those?

Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother.

Why is this Fourth Commandment so important? Of course, because as a rule our parents merit veneration and respect. But beyond that? The priest told me that when you violate any of the other Commandments you at the same time violate this one. Why? Because when you lie, cheat, and steal you're telling the world that your folks taught you that was okay. You impugn their integrity by making it appear they taught you that lying and so forth are all right. You insult your mother and father when you do wrong things.

About time y'all started listening to Momma again, eh?

April 19, 1775

On this day in 1775 the American Revolution began in earnest. The militiamen, the ordinary citizen soldiers of Lexington and Concord, turned back the more organized and more highly trained British, harassing them all the way back to Charlestown outside of Boston. The Shot Heard Round the World had been fired. April 19, 1775 had secured its place in American and World history.

The significance of this event cannot be underscored enough. To date, it lit the lamp of almost surely the only large scale revolution which has had any modicum of positive success. Most new nations sink into anarchy, more terrible tyranny, or simply the same old same old with a new face after a known form of government falls.

To be sure, even our Revolution was subject to severe trials early on. It was no certainty that a civil government based on popular will would result from the breaking of age old ties. Yet somehow it did; I believe that it was American Exceptionalism through Divine Providence that our nation rose from those battles as it did.

I do not mean this as an insult towards other people and nations who have or are now seeking similar freedom and respect. I know that we aren't and never have been perfect, and that there are and have been other rightly proud and blessed peoples and countries. But the fact is that popular uprisings need more than simple change. They need enlightened leadership. They need more than mob mentality. Any dictator with charisma and organizational skills can turn crowds to their will quite readily.

The colonists had rational leadership. The colonist themselves were on the whole reasonable people. They were able to overcome the occasional rabble to form a stable, reasonably free nation. And that's exactly what makes April 19, 1775 so memorable. Our revolution is truly unique in history. It was essentially founded 249 years ago today.

The Master Quips

Look, I know the old saw about going to the well too often. Yesterday's blog was filler, something I put together in the wee hours of Wednesday because I had to leave on a business trip at 2:30 AM and needed to get a few new words out into the ether. A blogger is supposed to blog every day, even just a sentence or two.

Here's today's bit of filler.

Many of us are familiar with Alfred Hitchcock Presents; I mentioned watching it just yesterday in fact. Hitch lead in and offered exit messages on each show's episode. Once he mentioned having sympathy with a character having wardrobe troubles. "I myself was once arrested for indecent exposure. It was when I removed my mask at a Halloween gala."

Some days I just shine in another's light.

With a Hitch

April 17. Another day, another dollar. So they say.

The Tigers are doing all right. 10-7, with good pitching. Could stand to score a few more runs though.

Alfred Hitchcock is on the telly. I call it that because Hitch was English and that's their slang for television.

The Twilight Zone just had an episode where two people, a man and a woman, both astronauts, were stranded on a distant planet. He was named Adam, she Eve. I suppose it was clever at the time.

In a couple of days it'll be April 19. If my math is right.

You know, stream of consciousness isn't so easy as it seems.

Because I Want To

I rarely have trouble with Canada customs. Whenever I head over, it's almost universally a rubber stamp. Show my identification, answer a couple perfunctory questions, and they let me on my way. 

But yesterday heading to Windsor for an end of season curling dinner, wow. I had to draw a deep breath to keep my cool. 

After derisively commenting on the size of my newer older van, the 1996 Chevy conversion van which I bought off my brother-in-law, the little snot in the booth asked with no small amount of disdain, "Why aren't you driving a regular car?"

I tell you, and I mean this quite seriously, I was instantly enraged. It was a burning, deep anger right to the core of my being. What? Did I miss the memo that Marty can't drive his van to Canada? Has Parliament passed a law that henceforth and in perpetuity Charles Martin Cosgriff shalt ne'er again pilot the motor car of his choice into these Canadian Dominions? 

What's it to you what I drive, ya little punk? Different country or not, I don't have to justify this to you. I wanted to smack that sneer right off his face. I wanted to yell, "Because I %$@!!&! want to drive my van!" That's why I don't drive a regular car, whatever the hell you mean by that.

Instead I took a deep, deep breath and answered, trying not to grit my teeth, "I just like driving my van."

That's crap, folks. Just crap.

Technology Spoiler

I watch my share of golf, and as with many other things I've noticed how innovation has crept into the coverage of the sport. What I like most are the arcing trails which typically appear on the TV screen indicating where a shot is headed. 

Imagine my confusion then when the technical wizards don't do it. Here's guy a teeing off: immediately after striking the ball there's a glorious arc showing just where it's going, with the highest point and the ball speed all right on the screen. Then on the very next shot, they don't do it.

Don't tease, folks. Every time or no time, please. I wouldn't mind it even on the putts.

Zeke and the Masters

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

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

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

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

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

I kept those clubs for years. Then I bought a better-than-mine set of used right handed clubs (used better than I ever will), and decided to sell Uncle John's clubs at a yard sale. Who needs two sets of clubs, especially opposite sided ones, right? A young left handed guy came by, practice swung a few of them, decided that he wanted to golf enough so that he ought to have his own clubs, and made his purchase.

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

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

Rico

Way back when, when neighborhood children played actual games on actual outdoor fields, there was this preteen who was an absolute vacuum cleaner on the baseball diamond. We called him Rico, after Rico Petrocelli, a known Boston Red Sox third baseman at the time. Our Rico could snap up any ground ball and track down any pop fly hit anywhere near his station. He impressed us almost every pickup game.

It turns out his name is Ray, and he works as a counter man at an industrial supply store where I occasionally make needed purchases. I'd dealt with him there for the last few years, until he realized who Cosgriff was and made the connection. Now I call him Rico when I see him.

He hasn't played ball in years. Of course, neither have I. Yet I remember thinking back in the day that he surely had a future in the game. "Nah, that was just kids having fun," he modestly explains it away. 

However that may be, it is cool to have a childhood connection in your life again. We had a lot of fun on the sandlots. Small world.

Neighborhood Savior

There is a fellow in the neighborhood, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who really seems to want to be the inspiration for all Woodbridge. Cloyce seems particularly concerned with criminal activity, although he chimes in on the Woodbridge Facebook page on any and all problems (real or imagined) in the area. What can be done? Can we write a letter to someone? What are the details? Have you called the police? How about updates? You should write out a short report of your own so as not to forget details, and share it on the community page. And, perhaps most tellingly, why haven't I heard?

He reminds me of the naive but eager teenager is the old movies: "We can make things work if we all pull together!" Yet Cloyce comes across more as the guy at the edge of the crowd, leaping and pleading with everyone to let him in. You know, the water boy quarterback wannabe generally ignored by the rest of the football team.

I suppose his heart's in the right place. And, yes, we should be vigilant in watching out for the folks in our community. Yet he comes off as more annoying than helpful. It's made worse by the fact that he seems to have all the answers. As a neighborhood friend of mine remarked, "Cloyce ain't gonna be happy until he earns his Junior G-Man badge."

He'll never get it the way he's going. 

Comet (Not the Cleanser)

I have to imagine that almost everyone knows about Halley's Comet. Its orbit brings it close to Earth about every 75 years. The last time it was nearby was 1986. A group of friends and I actually went out to see it then, and I found myself thinking about that on a drive recently as I happened to pass the park where we watched it.

To say I was geeked to see it would have been understatement. As a child I recall me Grandpaw Hutchins talking about when it passed in 1910, when he was a 11. He described it as very bright, and a spectacular sight. Some folk, he explained, thought it was the end of the world, the sight was so unusual. It turns out that Earth actually did pass through the tail of the Comet, so it surely was an awe (and perhaps fear) inspiring event.

Needless to say that after years of self induced build up I really wanted to see that thing return. I mean, I really wanted to see it. And so I did: as a tiny line on the lower western horizon from where that group of us spied it. Halley's Comet wasn't inspiring at all, let alone menacing.

I wish it had been better, especially as I don't expect to have the chance to see it again. It will be 2061 when Halley's comet returns; making it to 101 years old seems unlikely. Still, I have me Grandpaw's description of it. And I have the memory of his memory too, which ain't a bad thing.

The Keys to the Kingdom of the Shop

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

Some are the keys to cars which have long met the compactor.  I know that one key is for the last flatbed truck we had for delivering welders. That truck's been gone 35 or 40 years. We also still have the key from a 1961 Ford delivery truck. Interesting thing about that one: me Grandpa Joe bought it off of Seven-Up, the soda pop company. He didn't bother removing the logo, simply painting over it. You could see the Seven-Up image underneath the red of the driver's door.

Smaller keys are old shop locks for padlocks which are who knows where. Most of them have not been touched since well before Pops died, and he's been gone coming up on eleven years.

Why don't we get rid of them? I dunno. It's habit to have them there I suppose. One key is attached to a key ring which has the baby from the first Incredibles cartoon. That's, what, 2004? The baby is no longer bald but has a nice head of dust hair. It's to be expected I suppose, after hanging inside the doorway for close to 20 years now.

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

Last Shot

No, it isn't what you think. But headlines are supposed to generate interest, right?

My final curling shot in the Windsor Granite Curling league last night was - I am not bragging because I truly am rather humbled by it - a perfect center guard. I had not thrown a guard all evening. Not because I couldn't (Quiet, Ron) but because one had not been called for me. Then on my very last shot of the game we needed a dead perfect guard. And I made it, with good sweeping and a good line call. Thanks, boys!

I remarked to Dave and Steve, my sweepers, that I didn't know if I could throw the stone light enough to be a guard (don't make me say quiet Ron again) after throwing nothing but draws and hits all night. But there you go. You save the best for last.

I don't know what's going to happen with Granite curling next year. We move to a new arena owned by the City of Windsor and, quite frankly, I think the future of the game in southwest Ontario is, well, uncertain. Still, I'll give it a chance, and maybe make a few decent throws as I go. Either way, last night's last shot was satisfying.

Eclipsed

Yeah, I'm just staying home and watching today's eclipse from the D. The more I thought about it the more I thought, I do have work to do (well, that was my boss's, and conscience's, thought anyway) and what real difference can half a percent off totality (Detroit is predicted to have 99.4 sun coverage)  make? So I'll slip on a welding helmet and step outside the old barn and catch the thing as it grows and ebbs.

But the corona! That sliver of sunlight at totality! Ah, I've seen it before, in pictures. And again, it simply can't be that much better. I doubt I'll be on my deathbed wishing I'd have seen the whole eclipse. I'll be on my deathbed wishing I'd spent more time at work.

Ha, ha, no. But in this world sometimes work must be a priority. I would have probably been more inclined to drive further for totality if, say, Detroit were only at 80 or 90 percent. As it is, I'll take what I get.

Going to the Dogs

Wow. Just, wow. We live in a world which believes that there's nothing worth living for.

An otherwise healthy Dutch woman will die by assisted suicide because of the depression she suffers. Here's a New York Post article on the issue.

One in five Dutch now die by assisted suicide. Giving up seems to be the new honor in Holland. Their medical community is more than willing to help. In fact, they want euthanasia readily available for everyone over 75. It saves money on government health care.

I am in no way, shape, or form saying that we shouldn't empathize with anyone suffering from any mental or physical illness. Of course we should. Yet part of that also surely means trying to help people see the inherent value in their lives no matter what their exact condition may be. 

Instead, we hold their hand and gently affirm, well, sure, if that's what you want. It began as saying that to the seriously, physically ill. Now we say it to otherwise healthy young women. It's easier on the doctors and the bill payers that way. We can't help her (a questionable decision on its own) so let's kill her. It gets a case off the books.

And, slowly but certainly, the right to die becomes an obligation to die. It's best for you. It's best for all of us. 

Wow. Just, wow.

Actively Listening

Bill Newman was a fella who used to come into the Shop a lot. He was a plumber and a gregarious sort. Mr. Newman liked to talk. Perhaps the best word to describe him was raconteur, a teller of fanciful stories. 

Now, me Grandpa Joe liked to talk too. I remember many days where Mr. Newman would come in and Joe would stop his work to visit. And, no doubt, swap tales with his cohort.

One day they were off to the side talking and things became animated. Not because they were mad or upset with one another, no. It was due to the fact they were each wanting to tell their stories so much so that they were constantly interrupting one another, making it hard for either to finish what they was sayin.

Finally Bill Newman, who was about a head taller than Joe and quite strong, grabbed me Grandpa by his lapels and lifted him off the floor just enough that Grandpa's toes were all that was left touching the ground. He pulled Joe's face in close to his own. "Joe! Joe! Joe! We got a problem here!"

"What's that?" me Grandpa asked, actually, believe it or not, laughing at his predicament.

"We're both talkers! We gotta find us a couple'a listeners!"

Maybe you had to be there, but it was funny watching Joe being held by the lapels like that, and him just laughing along with it. Yet it was all between friends, right? 

Detroit's Holiday

Well, the Detroit Tigers lost the second game of a twin bill to the Mets yesterday, 2-1. They were the last undefeated team in MLB to fall this year and are now five wins against that one loss. So it goes. The Tigers weren't going to go 162-0 anyway. 

After six road games Detroit is now home for Opening Day against the A's. I'm not sure we can call them Oakland, now that they're heading to Sacramento for three, or four, or who really knows how many seasons. But that's another question for another day.

Baseball owns Opening Day. For lo, the winter is past. Spring is here and all is new. Baseball opens us up to summer. Sure, football is trying to horn in with the UFL. Let the 12 people who watch that have their fun. We know the real national pastime, and it begins again this afternoon a little after 1 in the D. I intend to catch it.

Cloyce Certainty

I have a good friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who had fretted to the point of insanity over a recent jury summons. His instructions were to call jury service after 5 PM the afternoon before the scheduled service date to find out if he actually had to report.

Now, Cloyce is just a bit paranoid. He never feels certain about certainty even when it's perfectly obvious what a given situation means. Duly calling the phone number on the summons the night before, he was told he didn't have to report. Yet he nonetheless checked online, where it showed his service was cancelled. Cloyce even scanned the QR Code on the summons, and was informed he could stay home. Still, Cloyce expressed fear over the matter. "I hope I don't actually have jury duty after all," he remarked to me.

"Well," I replied, "Maybe send them a telegram. What about a carrier pigeon? Have you tried smoke signals? Semaphore? An aldis lamp? Drum messaging like the ancients used? It doesn't seem that you've employed all your options."

Cloyce just stared at me. Yet I think he was simply processing the information, as I did see a Western Union van outside of his home later than night.

Mint Condition

Me Pops was on a trip one time with an old friend; I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. While in Philadelphia, they decided to take a tour of the US Mint there.

Miraculously, they were able to park within a block. But as they were climbing the steps to the Mint Cloyce remarked, "Bill, should I tell them at the door that I've got my pistol with me?"

Pops stopped in his tracks. After a second or two of thought he explained quickly and quietly, "Okay, Cloyce, here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna stand here a minute and talk, pretend we're discussing an issue, act like we forgot something, and then we'll go back to the car. Then we're gonna leave your gun there."

"I don't go nowhere without my gun!" Cloyce responded indignantly.

"Then you ain't going to the US Mint!" Dad said firmly. They got back to the car and drove off.

What a waste of an ideal parking space too. 

Like, Totally

The big solar eclipse is coming up next Monday, April 8. I had been planning for months to take the day off work and head down into northwest Ohio to see it. A total eclipse? A once in a lifetime event? I wasn't going to miss it.

Then in yesterday's paper I read that Detroit, where I live, will be at about 99.4% totality. Almost ninety nine and a half percent of the Sun will be blocked right at home. Do I want to drive a minimum of an hour each way, and fight the expected crowds, for around three minutes of complete coverage? How much of a difference can point-six of a percent make?

So now I don't know. I reserve the right to make the trek. But is it worth it?

Having a Good Day

I was kind of dreading today, yet it's actually going rather well.

As I waited in line at the coffee shop this morning, the young man in front of me as he payed his own tab, indicated me and told the cashier to cover my cup of joe on his debit card. I thanked him profusely; it's always nice when someone does you a kindness.

Heading into the old barn this morning, I found a fifty dollar bill laying on the ground a few feet outside the door. Then the first repair I had planned, a typically difficult chore and one I had dreaded all weekend, fell right into place. What was usually an hour or two project I had completed in twenty minutes.

I closed the Shop briefly and ran home for breakfast. I didn't think there was milk in the house yet there was, and I could have a bowl of the cereal which I had developed a taste for. 

While eating, I logged on to check my email. The top stories of the day were an in depth and spot on analysis of the Middle East crisis from President Joe Biden. I never imagined agreeing with him, but there it was. Even Donald Trump tweeted that it was a masterpiece of statecraft.

Let me tell you, this has been the most memorable First Day of April in my life.