I've said before that a part of me almost likes negative reviews of my books more than positive. Yet the truly fascinating reviews are the ones which show that something I've written engages a reader even if it doesn't enthrall them.
One such reviewer of my first novel A Subtle Armageddon explained:
The book follows a man who's in an almost dreamlike state, navigating the world, and finding enlightenment. It has thoughtful themes and unexpected twists. Despite its slow pacing, it is pretty interesting in some parts. It can be a challenging read, but it does leave an impression.
A challenging read which leaves an impression. I like that. Though the fellow only gave me three out of five stars in the Amazon rating system, I'm encouraged. It's an honest assessment, and not really negative. I like that he thought enough of it to remark on the book.
Part of my goal is to get people thinking about the big questions: Why are we here? How are we supposed to live? What is right, really right for its own sake, and what is really wrong and why we should avoid it. I simply cannot accept the argument that we're just here, to no purpose. And that purpose must be true and valuable in itself, knowable through the natural world, existing regardless of our own thoughts and, ugh, feelings.
A Subtle Armageddon is available here if I've piqued your interest.
I don't mind assisting people. I really don't. If you need help, I will aid you if I can. But holding your hand is a whole 'nuther story.
Awhile back, a customer called for advice. That's cool; perfectly fine. Indeed it's part of the job, and I readily accept it on that level. Shoot. Tell me how I can help.
He described the problem exactly; indeed his diagnosis was spot on. I told him what he needed and that I could sent it right out. He offered thanks, but explained that he had the part I described, knew its application and that it could be used to solve the issue he had (which, I remind you, he understood thoroughly). He simply wanted to make sure how to employ the tool before he tried it.
Oh-kay. You understood the issue. You had the part which you knew would address it, and fully comprehended how to employ it. But you called me to be even more certain.
Why not? I have nothing else to do. Take five minutes of my time. Ask my advice when you are already 100% sure of the answer. Don't think twice about it.
Of course I did not express such sentiments to the man. That doesn't mean I can't think them.
A good theft protection system on your car can cost a couple hundred bucks easily. Well, back in the day we had a cheap and easy theft protection system. We took off the wire which went from the coil to the distributor on our old cars. Forty years ago no engine was going to start, no way no how, without the coil connected to the distributor. It was foolproof.
I don't know if it's that simple anymore, as ol' Marty is way behind on car technology. I'm not sure who came up with the idea but I think it was either me Pops or me Grandpa Joe. Smart guys, them Cosgriffs.
Sure, it was a bit of nuisance to pop the hood and remove the coil wire, especially late at night or in the winter or even just after a long day. But that last person who drove a given car on a given day (we traded cars back and forth a lot in 1979) had to remember to get the coil wire.
It wasn't so bad. Things were helped by the fact that most coil wires attached the same way, meaning you didn't have to keep them sorted. You just grabbed one in the morning and put it on whatever vehicle you meant to drive. It was weird to sometimes see a small pile of seemingly random short black wires on the old man's desk though.
Sure, you'd have the occasional aggravation of absent mindedly getting out to a car and have the engine turn over for several seconds without even trying to start before it dawned on you there was no coil wire. You'd have to march back into the house to get one. It was not unlike the I forgot my mask feeling I'm sure most of us have felt a couple years ago.
But, hey, you still had the car rather than some miscreant.
I was in Walmart yesterday, buying a pair of shoes if you must know, when after satisfying that need I wandered around the store a bit just to see what might catch my eye. Yes, I'm becoming a shopper. I'll stop. Don't want you lose my man card.
While checking out coffee I went on to look at tea. As I held a box of English Breakfast tea in my hands (which I like; I could be slowly losing my Irish card too) I saw a cup of tea displayed on the wrapper. Under the cup were the words 'Serving suggestion'.
Well, this changes everything. I can't tell you how many times in my life I was standing in the kitchen with a tea bag in hand and a whistling kettle on the stove, frantically thinking, "How can I make this work?" All I want is a cup of tea. But if I pour the hot water over the bag it will create a mess on the floor. If I hold the bag in my hand and add water I'll scald myself badly. What can I do?
I can put it all in a porcelain cup! I bet even a ceramic mug would do. No more burned hands for this old boy, I tell you what.
Seriously, though: does Twinings Tea actually believe that a picture of hot tea in a cup enhances the chance of a sale? Have people really been thinking, That's it! I can make my tea in a cup. Now I'll buy more.
Somebody isn't getting their money's worth out of their promotional budget if you ask me.
As the great majority of you know, me Grandpa Joe rented welding equipment for many a year. For a lot of them years me Pops was one of his main delivery drivers. Dad used to love sitting in the office shanty on job sites before the day's work began, listening to the war stories and likely offering a few himself.
One day as he was early with a delivery most all of the weldors on hand were in the shanty drinking coffee and talking, having not yet set out to earn their daily bread. The guys were bragging about how much iron they were going to hang once they got started. It was going to be a big, productive day.
The job foreman, whom I'll call Cloyce just to give him a name, sat by silently taking in the revelry. Finally he had heard enough. Turning to Pops he said, overly loud but wanting everyone to hear, "You know, Red (they called me Pops Red when he was younger because his hair was red back then), if these fellas hung as much iron on the job as they did in the shed, we'd be a high-ballin' outfit."
Cloyce was ribbing them but to a point. They were put on notice to live up to their bragging when the work started. Pride can drive a man to a lot of things. One of them is to put up or shut up.
Back when I was curling in Canada, it wasn't unusual for me to have Canadian money on me, at least during curling season. That would be April until October, just to satisfy all of you who are intensely interested in such trivial information. As such, I didn't mind a few extra Cabucks every now and then.
It so happened that one fine day I was in my bank here in Detroit when I noticed a bit of quiet consternation at the teller's window next to me. The teller was explaining apologetically to a young couple, "I'm sorry, but I just can't exchange currency if you don't have an account here." They were Canadian and wanted US money.
"We only need a few American dollars," the guy was replying. The teller shook her head, holding out her arms to indicate her hands were tied. Policy, you know.
I interjected myself into the conversation. "How much do you need?"
The couple, startled a bit, turned to me. They considered their options and answered, "Just 40."
"To the best of my knowledge it's about par right now," I replied, meaning that Canadian and US dollars were about equal at the time. "I'll give you forty US for forty Canadian."
Hesitantly but gratefully, the man produced two Canadian twenties from his wallet. I gave him two of our Jacksons for it. "You can trust Mr. Cosgriff," the teller assured them.
Smiling broadly, the young man and the young woman blurted out together, "Thank you."
Just being a humble servant to Canadians in distress, that's all.
As you might know, I have words and sayings which I use regularly. So did me Pops, such as, 'That'd stink a dog off a gut wagon'. So did me Grandpa Joe with, 'I ain't hell on pretty'. Well, me Uncle John had a routine phrase which he actually disliked: "You can't miss it."
When giving directions, he believed, you never told someone they can't miss it. They will. If he was being given directions, he knew that, once enlightened with the fateful phrase, he would miss it. To him, the words never failed to give the opposite outcome.
He didn't believe in the fates or jinxes of course. It was more that anything can go wrong, anything can be 'missed'. The right thing to do was simply give the directions and don't mix opinion into it. Answer the question about how to go where and find what, and leave it at that.
I hope you get his point. Because, of course, you can't miss it.
Math, a dear friend of mine who interestingly happens to be a math teacher, says, is life. I don't doubt it. When the numbers in the checkbook (does anyone use one of those anymore?) don't add up, it's a problem. But this is more about numbers than full on mathematics (does anyone use the complete word anymore?).
A twice recurrent number in my life is 1104. When you pronounce it eleven-oh-four it rolls nicely off the tongue. It was the address of the house me Pops grew up in (on Putnam Street in Detroit) and the number of me son's scout troop. That is at least kind of serendipitous, isn't it?
Me Uncle John whom I call Zeke loved the old house. So did me Pops, as I'm quite sure did the rest of their siblings. Zeke used to say if he had the money he'd rebuilt it precisely to spec.
Me Grandparents moved out of it in 1965. I remember being there as a small boy. As the second oldest grandchild there likely aren't many of us on my tier of the family that were in it. The place was huge. I recall being in the back yard playing with the dog they had at the time (Moochie? Does that sound like the dog's name?), and toddling around the basement with me Pops and his brothers as they shot pool.
Then me son Frank ends up making Eagle Scout through Boy Scout Troop 1104. I don't know if Pops realized that, but I have to imagine he did. Some numbers just stick with us and I have the distinct impression 1104 did with him.
There's other numbers which mean a lot to me but that's the only one which appears prominently in my life two times. I may play the lottery with it today. Third time's a charm?
The past weekend at the Old Redford Theater was Christmas movie weekend. They offered Scrooged, A Muppet Christmas Carol, and Home Alone along the way. The Sunday matinee was billed as a mystery Christmas film.
"Is it a mystery surrounding Christmas?" me brother Phil and definitely not Cloyce asked.
"No, It's a mystery what the film is. They won't reveal which movie until opening curtain." Yes, they still have a curtain at the Old Redford.
Well, it turns out that Phil was kinda right (he never is more than kinda of right, and at that rarely). Imagine my delight when the movie turned out to be The Thin Man, a delightful comedy drama murder mystery with Christmas as a backdrop. It has William Powell and Myrna Loy as Nick and Nora Charles, the wonderfully bantering married sleuths. Great, crisp writing, fine acting, smart and funny quips between Nick and Nora; it's one of my all time favorite films. It was a satisfying surprise for me.
But is The Thin Man a Christmas movie? Along the lines of Die Hard I suppose it is, as the action occurred over the Holiday. That said, you figure it out. I have my opinion (I typically do) but today I'm just going to be the guy throwing the bomb into the room and running away.
This past Friday we made a pretty good sale: a large machine with extra cables. It came to $3100, which for our small business is a very nice sale indeed. Truly, it made our day. And although we take credit cards and I will take checks from a trusted source, he paid cash. Cash is still king, baby.
As the customer left he asked if we had another unit in stock. I answered yes, but that it was spoken for as another man had left half down. He then asked, "If that guy backs out, would you give the same package I just got for $2100?" I stammered that I'd think about it.
Rudimentary math will tell you that what he was asking for was nearly one-third off the original sale. That's kind of bold for a guy to ask if you ask me, even having just made a major purchase.
My brother Phil, who has a quick wit, remarked after the guy had left, "Can you believe that? Asking for a grand off?" He paused, and then continued as though speaking in mockery to the fella, "Do you mind if we make some money off our sales?"
True words, well spoken.
I began to expound about English grammar. She listened quietly and wrote a couple of notes as I went along. After a minute of two she took a pinch, literally a pinch, hardly enough to call a crumb, off of her donut and ate it. I thought quietly to myself, and very calmly, 'Take a bite of the donut'.
I continued with my lecture. Before long the young lady had another infinitesimal bit of her donut, then a tiny, bare, meager sip at her coffee. 'Eat the donut,' I said to myself, a little more encouragingly.
Rules of the comma were the rule of the day, so I pressed on. She took another vague nip of her pastry. 'Take a bite of the donut,' said Marty to himself, becoming perturbed at her manner of consumption.
After an explanation of comma rule three and a note about such, another pinch of donut. 'Take. A bite. Of your donut,' I thought emphatically. By then it looked as though a mouse had been nibbling at it rather than a human being eating it.
Comma rule five followed comma rule four. Pick, pick, pick at the donut. She wasn't eating the doughy ring so much as slow torturing it. That pastry was undergoing a horrible, painful death. My pulse raced; a drip of sweat formed on my forehead. My blood pressure rose volcanically. In my mind I was yelling, 'For the love of all that's good and holy in this world, take a bite out of that stupid donut!
The math instructor appeared in the doorway. We tagged teamed our classes and she had arrived to do a math review. I finished up, gave a homework assignment, and rose to go to the other room to talk about the comma there. As I made my exit I took a furtive glance over my shoulder. The young woman had just eaten another atom of her snack.
'Take an actual bite out of that donut,' the math teacher thought, with a touch of anxiety. I could see it in her eyes.
Today is St. Nicholas Day. Way back when, during the late 1960s at old St. Dominic School, we used to line up our shoes outside the classroom door on December 6, at least those of us in the lowest grades. The teacher would then distract the class with an assignment of some kind. A few minutes later there would magically be a small trinket or two, and perhaps a couple pieces of candy, in our footwear. We would have a quick celebration before getting back to our school work. That is a fond memory of this old man.
Happy St. Nicholas Day.
One of my kids, I honestly don't remember who (that'll get them to thinking and pointing fingers) accidentally dropped a coffee cup while we were on a visit to me Grandpa Joe's. It shattered, porcelain shards scattering all across the kitchen floor. As a parent typically does, I began to chastise the guilty party for not bring careful. Joe cut me off. "Hell, I never knew one to wear out."
I thought it was funny even at the time, and it says something about what our reactions might ought to be. While I don't want to excuse carelessness (children certainty must be taught to be considerate of things, especially other people's things) there's that old bugbear about perspective. It was just a common old coffee mug and it was an accident. And they don't wear out. It would likely get broken one day anyway.
Gruff as he was, I always thought Joe had a soft spot for kids just the same. I've told a few stories here that illustrates that. Add this to it.
Funny all the things you find on the internet. Funny too all the funny things which run through my head while I'm scrolling.
This morning I stumbled upon a sale for a 'smart' bird feeder. I suppose that means it attracts birds somehow, or doles out food on some particular schedule, or perhaps even has a camera where you might watch birds at dinner close up. Or are they actually watching you?
Yet those were not the first thoughts which popped into my mind. The very first thought I thought was, this feeder must be designed to help the evolution of bird species, because only smart birds will figure out how to use it. Dumb birds will die out. Survival of the fittest!
Bird evolution. It's entertaining to control natural selection.
I've long held to the standard that you aren't the best judge of your self, your motives, or your actions. You're either too harsh - especially if you're Catholic, ha, ha - or too lenient. Indeed I will editorialize for a moment and say that unfettered leniency is the hallmark of the secular world, and look where that's gotten us. Still, know thyself, the unexamined life is not worth living, and all that. You should examine the things you've said and done, and probably more the things you've said as they might be the best window into your soul. And when you're trying to establish yourself as a writer, you discover very quickly that you've put a lot on the public record.
On the whole I like what I've written. Yet that doesn't mean I don't appreciate reasonable criticism. With five books available on various platforms and with each having garnered anywhere from 40 to 180 reviews, some brief, some extensive, I almost - almost - find the critical ones the most fair.
A more routine negative comment is that my writing is at times a slog. I could get angry, except that it's true. Sometimes I'm just bridging a gap because I couldn't figure out how else to jump from A to B and it shows.
I've been advised that it can be hard to stay interested in my stories, and I know that to be true. My personal favorite book of mine is A Subtle Armageddon. Yet even I must concede that it drags at points. I think that story has to drag a bit, given the parameters inherent within the tale, but so it goes.
Ah well. Before I go on too long (quiet, Ron) here's what I'm about today: links to my books. Buy them. If you are into examining your motives, you'll find that you've occasionally spent your time less wisely than in helping an aspiring author rise among the greats. Yes, that's cheeky. We writers can do that.
The Interim Generation (Kindle only)
The Sublime to the Ridiculous - Family Lore (Kindle only)
Amos, you'll recall, was an old friend of me Grandpa Joe. You may remember also that he was considered tight. However true that might be, and I suspect that it's been a bit embellished by the myth-makers of family history, he didn't mind spending a few dimes on good causes. One such cause was St. Dominic's annual Fall Festival.
As should be expected at a large party celebrating autumn, among the games and spinning wheels was a turkey booth. You pick a number, you put your money or ticket on that number, the wheel is spun, and should that number come up, you have your entree for your Thanksgiving feast. Amos approached the booth, selected some number not 13 (he was also superstitious, remember?), and waited for the spin of the wheel. He anticipated nothing, but lo and behold, won a turkey on that first try.
Now, two things were at work that day. Amos was genuinely there to support the Church. But then, he also knew his reputation. He figured he couldn't just walk away with the bird. So he played a second time with a second number (still not 13). He won another turkey.
Then a third one.
And finally, a fourth one.
You may rest assured that Amos spread his largesse. He gave away three of the four turkeys. I've no doubt also that he made his way around the school gymnasium and spent his share of hard earned dollars to help old St. Dominic. But to hear me Pops tell it, the look on his face, the sheer mortification at winning four turkeys in a row at a charitable event, was priceless.
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