It's Coming

We all know that AI, Artificial Intelligence, has great predictive powers. We know too that Marty making an above average golf shot is pretty rare. But could these two factoids produce something more? Something which might give us pause?

Tuesday is my golf league night. On the last hole yesterday I was off the green, the putting surface where the hole is cut (sometimes at menacing, sinister, masochistic places, but that's another blog), by about five feet. I struck the ball, just right as it were, and it jumped off my club, bounced twice, then took a roll straight into the cup. I can't say I planned it, but I planned it of course. Such things are known as no-putts because you didn't have to putt. Duh. It was only my second no-putt ever; I now have one more no-putts than birdies. That's an accomplishment, right? How many other golfers can say that?

I grab a hot dog and fries in the clubhouse, sit with the guys a few minutes as I eat, and then head home. Once at home, I flip open my laptop just to poke around a bit before going to sleep. What's the first video my computer suggests to me? An absolutely amazing no-putt by a professional golfer. 

It was an amazing shot. But am I just a little paranoid that AI might have something to do with it being shown me? It sure felt at least a bit creepy.

Older Than What?

Teaching adult education for twenty odd years was fun, and occasionally rewarding. Yet certain moments are bound to stand out. I will never forget the two funniest incidents I have ever had in a classroom.

While grading a short essay for an Economics course, the student was asked the difference between stocks and bonds. In an obvious yet hilarious cut and paste off the Internet (a practice we frowned upon of course and graded accordingly), the answer began: "Stocks were medieval devices of public humiliation and torture." It went on to explain in some, ah, fascinating detail, the exact nature of certain forms of torture. Reading this challenged my attempts to stay calm and professional, to not laugh out loud at my desk in a room full of students. I had no trouble keeping control until the last sentence: "Bonds are government issued interest bearing securities."

Well, the student was half right in his answer, and I was able to keep my professional wits. Barely.

On another occasion, I had an English assignment to grade. With that one, I did go on to completely lose my composure in peals of laughter which I tried valiantly to hide but to no avail. I had to leave the room for ten minutes initially, hiding in an empty teacher's lounge while leaving the other instructor (there were two of us at all times in our teaching arrangement) to lament my having abandoned him. Luckily it was a slow night.

The assignment was to make comparisons in the form of analogies. The first prompt read: "Tom's car was old." Expected responses were along the lines of, 'Tom's car was older than baseball.' Instead I was treated to, "Tom's car was older than a dead frog."

I was okay at first; I stifled my giggles, although it took it a few seconds of tongue biting to maintain myself. But I was good.

The next prompt was, 'Abby was hungry.' Harmless enough. Until I read the student's offering.

"Abby was very hungry, like a sad clown who had fell off his bike."

I immediately roared uncontrollably. Shawn, the other teacher, asked what was up. Giving him the paper I replied between guffaws, "Read the first two sentences and I'll be back in a few minutes."

On my return, finally beyond any wild laughter, the first thing Shawn said was, "I can see why you didn't give credit for the first analogy. The frog may not have been dead that long."

I returned after another twenty minutes. Good times.

Mistaken Identity

I know she didn't mean anything by it. They were simply honest mistakes, which I'm sure the woman doing the readings at Mass that one Sunday didn't even realize she was doing. By the same token, it was all very, very distracting.

The readings involved the apostles Paul and Barnabas travelling around Asia Minor spreading the Gospel. That's all well and good. But the reader kept saying it was Paul and Barabbas.

Barabbas of course is who the crowd demanded rather than Jesus when Pontius Pilate was trying to appease their wrath immediately prior to the Crucifixion. 

I cannot begin to tell you the amount of personal discipline it took me, who was suddenly becoming a giggling preteen, to keep his cool The woman would say, Paul and Barabbas, and I would sit in the pew having to bite my tongue to not laugh. Then she said again, Paul and Barabbas, and I thought, of course, Barnabas. It's Barnabas, dear woman. Barnabas.

Ten seconds later she revealed that Paul and Barabbas were preaching in Antioch and Cappadocia. And I would have to stifle a laugh. Again.

There weren't many people in that large Church and let me tell you, a quick stifled laugh which sounded like a painful stifled sneeze rather echoes under such circumstances. I just know a couple folks turned around to find the source of the sound which might have been a startled animal but was rather an old man trying desperately not to regress to 11. Of course I then had to hear one more time about the good works of Paul and Barabbas. 

I was squinting my eyes shut and holding my hand over my mouth by that point. Then I began to lurch towards the opposite impulse of laughing out loud. I wanted to stand up and shout, "Paul and Barnabas! It's Paul and Barnabas for crying out loud!" 

Thankfully the organ began playing. The child in me finally left. Or at least his guffaws were drowned out.

Golf Cart Shower

Joe Cosgriff rented welding equipment and me Pops worked for him. That meant the old man got to know a lot of folks in the construction trades. One such fella, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, had a streak of Big Kid in him.

Cloyce was job foreman who ran many large jobs for the company he worked for way back when. He was known for being a bit of prankster too. It never interfered with his work though, and was always in good fun.

On the bigger construction sites it wasn't unusual for the company to have a golf cart available so that Cloyce could get around more quickly. One day him and me Pops were out looking for a particular guy for some reason; I don't recall what. When informed that he was on the other side of the plant where they were working Cloyce told Dad, "C'mon, Red (Dad was called Red back then because he had red hair when he was younger), let's hop in the golf cart and go find him."

Cloyce drove them outside the building to tool around to the opposite side; it would be easier than weaving in and out of machinery and what not inside. Pops said that as they passed beyond a corner there was a huge puddle, really a small lake, left in the parking lot from a thunderstorm the night before. He guessed it as better than a hundred feet wide. And he noticed a small grin on Cloyce's face, and a glint in his eye.

"I knew what was coming," Dad would explain in telling the tale, "So I figured I might as well enjoy the ride." Cloyce turned cart right towards the center of that lake and tore through it, completely inundating the old man and himself in the tremendous shower of water which their little vehicle created, both of them shouting like banshees all the while.

It happened that the man they were looking for was standing right in a doorway as the two approached him. "What happened to you guys?" he asked, mouth agape.

"Just ran into a heavy rain," Cloyce answered, as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

The man looked up at the blinding sun, then back at the two soaked golf cart passengers, merely shaking his head.

The Morning After

The Detroit Tigers began the year well, launching themselves into a huge lead in their division and the best record in baseball. Now they've lost 11 out of 12 and the expected panic is setting in. And that's why I typically don't bother to watch the games anymore.

Simply put, I've decided that sports aren't worth the emotional investment. So I don't watch. I look up the score the next day and grunt at a loss or smile at the news of a win. It keeps me off the roller coaster, and I find I can accept things more readily.

To be sure, come playoff and World Series time I'll likely watch. No; even with that, I'm not so sure. I consciously didn't tune into the Detroit Lions playoff game last football season. I'm quite happy I didn't. Who really wants to see a tank job like that? When I heard the score the next day there wasn't any crying in my coffee. I basically found myself thinking, that's not what I expected, and then went on with my day.

The hype train which sports ask us to ride isn't worth the cost of the ticket. Truthfully, sports are as bad as politics for isn't this the most important thing ever? The older I get, the more I find such attitudes tiresome.

Pops Had the Power

For the last thirty five or so years of Joe Cosgriff's life, me Pops, his son, had full power of attorney over him. What that meant was that Dad could make any and all decisions about my grandfather's person, property, or business arbitrarily and unilaterally, without Joe's permission or even knowledge. Me Pops could have sold his house, his cars, drained Grandpa Joe's bank account, anything.

That's all stuff Dad would never have done, of course. But Grandpa wanted Pops to be able to make business decisions for him whenever Joe was on the road, which was often. He figured that with no easy ways of communication back then, sixty or seventy years ago, he'd set things up so that me Pops could immediately do whatever was necessary to run the family welding rental business. Joe figured that giving his son full power of attorney was the easiest way to do that: decisions could be made by Dad on the spot.

The lawyer setting it all up was aghast. He vehemently advised Joe not to do it. "It's dangerous to give someone that kind of power over your person and property, Mr. Cosgriff!'" the man argued.

"Hell, if I can't trust him now, when can I trust him?" Grandpa Joe shot back.

Joe and the old man had a good relationship, I tell you what. A good relationship.

With Apologies to Dr. Donoso

As well as reading more I'm trying to get back into writing more. As faithful readers know this particular blog has been around since 2008, but I also have books available. My first, A Subtle Armageddon, is out in both print and a kindle edition. You may find them here.

Don't worry, this isn't entirely a sales pitch. I simply found myself thinking about that day in 1982 when I had my first real and deep inspiration to begin work on what became ASA. 

I was sitting in a philosophy class in room 332 of the Briggs Building on the University of Detroit campus. Dr. Anton Donoso, a truly fine teacher whose class on American Philosophy I thoroughly enjoyed, was lecturing, I think, on William James. For all I do remember of that day I don't recall exactly who he was talking about. Anyway, I had had this germ of an idea for a book for a few years by then. I even knew where it would end, though I didn't know how I'd get there. And that particular evening, well, in a fit of inspiration, I began writing. By the time class was over I had hand written almost ten pages of that first novel.

I have long wondered whether Dr. Donoso even noticed what I was doing, and if he did, did he think, wow, there's one student really into my lecture, the way he's scribbling on his notebook. And that, if it was the case, I've always felt bad about. So, wherever you are today Dr. Donoso, I apologize. I really did like your class. I was just distracted that day. 

The Order of Things

Sock, shoe, sock, shoe. That's how you put on your shoes and socks, right? Ideally it's even right sock, right shoe, left sock, left shoe. Everybody does it that way, I'm sure.

You don't? Heathen. You probably put the toilet paper roll upside down and towards the wall too I bet...

Roadside Repair

Cars are better today; I don't think there's any doubt about that. They are built better and last longer. The only real downside is that they're more difficult to fix when there is an issue. Forty years ago, back in my day, sonny, I pulled an engine on the car I had at the time and replaced a rear main oil seal on my own. I never gave it a second thought: it needed doing so I did it. I'd never attempt such a thing these days.

To give you an example from even farther back in Cosgriff history, and which shows that car repairs were even simpler way back when, I'll tell you the tale of me Grandpa Joe and his brother, me Uncle Bill.

There were driving around one day and whatever old vehicle they were in threw a rod. A very simple and I'm sure unsatisfying explanation of this is that a piston rod came off the crankshaft in the engine. If the piston can't work, and it can't if it's not connected to anything, the car won't go (or at least go very well or very far). So what did those two venerable brothers do?

They found a ditch deep enough for their purposes, straddled it with the car, crawled under the vehicle and fixed that thrown rod on the spot. Then they went on their way.

Granted, me Uncle Bill had a reputation as a cracking good mechanic, and they certainly had tools on them. Still, doing a major engine repair, one that likely took an hour or two, on the side of the highway while lying in a ditch, well, you ain't doing that very often if at all these days.

Countrified Music

Country songs seem to merit parody, don't they? This coming from a guy who likes country music, and I mean the old twangy stuff like Hank Williams all the way up to, oh, the late 1990s. I don't know much about any music since then, except for Weird Al. He's timeless.

But country begs for jokes almost more than any other style of music. Maybe it's the lyrics. This morning I happened to hear, I'm so lonesome I could cry. Not terrible, but I immediately found myself thinking...

I'm so hungry I could eat.

I'm so tired I could sleep.

I'm so thirsty I could drink.

I'm in so much actual physical pain I could take 8 Tylenols or even go into urgent care and maybe have surgery and spent a few days in the hospital recovering.

All right, that last one was kind of forced. But you get the point.

Not The Kids Table

So many of us when growing up loathed the 'kids table' at family gatherings. Until you reached a certain age you sat with the younger folk, even when you were, by, ahem, relative standards, not really that young.

But did you know that the opposite is true too? There's an old folks table you can, I guess, graduate to. It's happened to me before and will again at this afternoon's Cosgriff family reunion.

I'm the second oldest grandchild in my branch of Cosgriffs, if you start with me Grandpa Joe and Grandma Cosgriff as is the case with us. Consequently all of my cousins are younger than me. Not that we don't get along, because we do. Indeed in this Facebook age I believe my cousins and I know each other very well especially compared to other generations. 

Still, the age gap can and does make a difference in tastes, and the simple fact that my younger cousins would play together at past reunions while I was just beyond their age range naturally drew them closer to one another. It's just how things are.

So at this afternoon's gathering I'll probably gravitate towards the aunts and uncles rather than cousins. I'll be at the old folks table. And I really don't want to graduate from that one anytime soon. 

They Call Me MISTER Charles

Wednesday I had to actually go into my bank to perform a transaction because my debit card wasn't working at the outside ATM. Woe is me.

The teller was a very helpful young woman who was able to settle the matter. To do so she needed to see my ID; I duly slid my driver's license under the glass to her. Looking at it she responded, "We'll get this all straightened out, Mr. Charles."

Mr. Charles, not Mr. Cosgriff. It's happened before, with other folks at other places, as though they can't pronounce my last name but want to be professional and courteous. So it becomes Mr. First Name.

I'm okay with that so far as it goes. Yet I also don't see how Cosgriff is all that difficult to say. A bare knowledge of phonics would suffice. 

All right, I grew up with the moniker, so perhaps my opinion isn't quite objective. Ah well. It is what it is.

In the Numbers

My new old van, in contrast to my newer older van, on Tuesday hit a milestone I've never seen before. In all the history of my personal Cosgriff cars, it hit 234,567 miles. Yep. 2-3-4-5-6-7, all in a row.

I wanted to get a picture of the odometer to capture the moment. But I was in heavy traffic, in what is known in the Detroit area as the 'mixing bowl' where several major highway arteries junction, and simply couldn't manage it. As I was driving in heavy traffic I probably shouldn't have been all that enamored of the odometer reading at all. 

Yet I was. It's exciting to crease the danger envelope every now and then.

Lucky Seven

Some guys, I don't know what they're thinking.

I repair drain snakes; the bulk of you know that by now. And I have been very busy lately. By my whining, the bulk of you surely know that too. Yet I do want work coming in. I figure it's good to be eternally a week or ten days behind. That way, you know there's always something to do.

Seven, they say, is a lucky number. Perhaps. But 7 drains snakes for repair at once? That happened to me one day last week.

A customer brought in 7 broken main drain machines. All at once. Then he pleads, "How quick can I get one or two back?"

"I don't know. I have to go over them to see what they need!"

"Can't you do the easy ones first?"

"I don't know what the easy ones are until I check them out!"

Lucky 7, hell.

Braking Cloyce

An old buddy of mine, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, noticed one morning on his way to work that the brake lights were out on his car. I gotta get to work, I'll deal with them this evening, he thought. 

A stoplight caught him a few minutes later. A car pulled up behind him and, as luck would have it, a police cruiser right behind that dude. Ol' Cloyce prayed, if I can just get past the intersection maybe the cops will turn and there won't be a problem.

But the driver behind him decided to be a good Samaritan. He pulled to the right and came up next to Cloyce on the passenger side. "Hey! Hey man! Your brake lights are out! Both of them!"

"Yeah, thanks!" replied Cloyce. It was then the police flashers went on, and Cloyce was pulled over. Thanks for teĺling the police too, he thought to himself. He waited for his ticket.

Fortunately it was one of those 'fix it within 10 days and we'll tear it up' situations. But maybe it didn't have to be that; the guy's heart was in the right place I suppose.

What Not To Do

I mentioned yesterday that my doctor is concerned about my red blood cell count being slightly elevated. Not dangerously so, but higher than he'd like. Needless to say the first thing I did when I got back home was to look up what that condition might cause.

That, of course, is precisely what you should not do.

As it is, a high red count can lead to clotting, which might lead to strokes or heart attacks. It may signal a rare leukemia or other vicious underlying condition, all of which now have me worried because, of course, the worst is always going to happen. This is on top of me Pops having recurring blood issues (though not that) and now genetics are working against me too.

To be sure, it may simply be that my bone marrow has decided to kick a few more red cells into my system just because it wants to, something which can be covered through medication. But, again, the worst!

All of this comes from an elevated but not in itself dangerous condition. The Doc's precise instructions were to take a baby aspirin a day and stay hydrated, but to otherwise go about my routine. I was cautioned that if I developed a persistent headache, dizziness, or blurred vision I should go see him, or find an urgent care if necessary. In short, it's a borderline state which, though meriting a watch, is far from gloom, despair, and agony. Nothing particularly scary about that, is there?

So I'll do what he says and we'll do more blood work at my October checkup. If it's all right, problem solved. If not, I get referred to a hematologist, which itself is not reason for concern because he may well find nothing to worry about. 

But it feeds the paranoia, doesn't it?

Sunday Funny

My doctor is concerned that my red blood cell count is too high, so he wants me to take one low dose, 'baby' aspirin a day to thin my blood a bit. Yep, at my age, baby aspirin.

Now all I can think as I hold each little pill in hand before I take it are very childish things.

"No! I won't take it!"

"But it's good for you."

"Nuh-uh. That's baby aspirin. I'm a big boy now!"

"It's for your own good!"

Arms now crossed. "I won't do it."

You get the point: acting like a baby over baby aspirin. I'll stop now.

The Almost Robbery

Father Thomas Smith was one of the Dominican priests whom I remember and admire. 

Five or six blocks away from St. Dominic, where Fr. Smith was pastor in the Seventies, was St. Leo, at that time headed by Fr. John Morrell. Sadly one night, and thankfully he was not seriously hurt, two men broke into the St. Leo Rectory one evening and took what cash he had and a few other items. He called Fr. Smith about the incident right after it occurred.

In hearing the tale, Fr. Smith was properly sympathetic and asked what he might do to help. "Double bolt your doors," Fr. Morrell replied.

"Why?" Father Smith asked incredulously.

Fr. Morrell continued, "Because they demanded to know where the next nearest Church was, and I panicked and told them St. Dominic."

Thanks a lot, thought Fr. Smith. But fortunately nothing came of it.

Grandma Negotiates With Joe

I'm not sure exactly when it was, so I'll say 1970 because it fits the time frame. But me Grandma Cosgriff was in the market for a car. Her 1956 Dodge had conked out, and she needed wheels. 

Man, that old Dodge of hers was a car. It loomed huge in the parking spot in front of her and Joe's house. I remember many rides in that pale blue over white battleship, hard plastic coverings on the seats so as not to ruin the upholstery.

Anyway, all good things, and Grams was looking for a replacement. About that same time me Grandpa Joe, her husband if I haven't established that by now, had gotten a beautiful maroon 1967 Chevy Impala off his sister Ruth. It was a very nice car; I remember it well too. Joe bragged on that car constantly, how well it drove, how smooth the engine ran, how good it looked. He was really pleased with that vehicle.

Joe had went out one evening, and when he got back home he found Grandma sitting at their dining room table. "Sit down, Joe, we have to talk," she instructed her husband.

He took a chair. "What do we have to talk about?" he asked.

"Ruth's car."

"Ruth's car?" Joe demanded. "What about it?"

Grandma Cosgriff held out her right hand, palm up, and said simply, "Just give me the keys."

"I bragged on that car a bit too much," Joe ruefully lamented to me Pops the next day at the Shop. But that was how me Grams solved her car problem.

The Cutting Edge

One year, I don't remember exactly when, I bought me Grandpa Joe a carpet knife for Father's day or his birthday or something. He called it a hawkbill knife, because it looked like the beak of a hawk. He loved it, but my aunt living with him and me Grandma Cosgriff, hated it. "He opens everything with that knife," she lamented, "And leaves the trash all over."

Fast forward to yesterday. I bought myself a little snack at a truck stop, and dagnabbit, I could not get that thing open. It was some sort of vacuum sealed plastic and it would not tear despite having a notch of sorts which was intended to allow easy opening. I surely looked like an idiot, sitting in my van and pulling and yanking on that package, biting it trying to get it open, and trying to pierce it with an old key. And I recalled Joe and that hawkbill and thought, I want to get me one of those and keep it on me at all times.

You see, Joe had tired of trying to open things with brute force. So he used his knife to get around that. And by gosh, that's my plan for the future. Get a knife and cut things open.

I think my aunt hated it because of the debris trail Joe's package-opening typically left, and I get that. But after yesterday, I'd rather have more to clean up than fight with something. I may have burned all the calories I consumed simply in getting to my treat.

The Golf Talk

The golf league which I play in on Tuesday nights is filled with a good bunch of guys. Yet they are decidedly better golfers than I am. For nine holes the bulk of the scores are in the 40s. There's typically a couple high 30s, while an errant one or two cross 50. I hover around sixty, with a league high mandated handicap of 18, whatever that entails, because I don't actually understand handicaps either.

I can't putt and I can't chip. I can be okay off the tee and from the fairway. Occasionally I sniff mediocrity. On one 510 yard par 5 yesterday I scored six, a bogey. But I was on the green in four and the two putt gave me six. Given that my game, uh, lacks consistency, I'm okay with that result. 

With yesterday's round we've played 81 holes. I've won two. So you have a pretty solid idea of where I rank with the other players.

It wasn't without surprise when the man who runs the league, a truly nice fellow named Roger, took me aside in the clubhouse as I went to leave. "There's a consensus among the guys, Marty, that we need to make the league more fun for you. So we've decided it's okay if you want to start from the near tees when we play," he was saying. Then he quickly added, "Please don't take this the wrong way." The concern in his voice was readily evident.

The truth is, it was all I could do not to laugh out loud. I was also rather embarrassed for Roger being obviously embarrassed talking to me. But the fact is, I get it. They're trying to make rounds against me more competitive. What I found funny was this poor guy feeling badly enough that he was trying to dance around it. In an odd way, I appreciate his meaning and intent.

I assured Roger that I was having fun and that I was grateful the others welcomed me as they had because to an, ahem, tee, they've been kind and supportive both personally and golf-wise.

Of course, next week I will play from the near tees. I don't want to offend their goodwill.

Zeke's Answer for Everything

We all, well, many of us anyway, daydream of coming into big money. You know, winning the lottery or the like. Me Uncle John who I sometimes call Zeke was no different. He dreamed of winning the lottery. Indeed, he was quite prepared for it. He had in truth determined the very first thing he would do if he won. Seeing as folks like to hit you up for money if they thought you had a pile, Zeke said that if the big bucks came his way he would begin answering every single question No. Then he would answer the actual question.

"Hey John, how are today?"

"No. I'm doing great, thanks for asking."

"How about this fine weather we been having, John?"

"No. It's been pleasant, hasn't it? I might go golfing."

"What are doing for dinner today Zeke?"

"No. Well, I believe I have a taste for Mexican, now that you got me thinking about it."

Such a kidder. Until I realized he meant it.

Cosgriff Coffee

We Cosgriffs, at least us Detroit and Illinois Cosgriffs, loves our coffee. I actually get the urge double, seeing as me Grandpaw Hutchins, me Mom's Dad, loved his coffee too. Anyway, family lore, and by family lore I mean that both me Pops and me Grandpa Joe insist it's true, holds the following tale.

When me Pops was about 5, Joe took him along on a train ride to visit family in Illinois. In Chicago, I believe, they had to switch trains. There was a layover of a couple hours, so Joe takes his eldest into a diner at the station to mark the time and grab a bite.

The waitress approached right after they had sat themselves at a table. Setting down menus, she followed with the typical, "Can I start you boys off with something?"

"Two coffees, one black, one half and half," Joe responds.

As Joe tells it, me very young Pops looks up at him and asks innocently, "Joe, you gonna drink that coffee with cream?"

"Two black coffees," me Grandpa corrected himself to the waitress.

That's knowing how you like your coffee, folks.

 

Top Dead Center

Me Pops had an old friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who had a car which wasn't running right. He asked Dad to help install 'points' which older engines needed and are inside a distributor and, when set properly, allow the car to run correctly. Are you with me so far?

Normally, points were set 'top dead center'. Don't fret if you don't understand what that means. Just accept that it's important.

Cloyce, a stickler for detail, set them top dead center. The car engine ran rough. Pops took a turn at it. He adjusted the points where they weren't top dead center. The engine ran smooth.

Cloyce wasn't having it. The points had to be TDC according to the paperwork which came with them. Dad explained that the instructions didn't account for the natural wear and tear on car parts as cars were driven. It would be all right to set the points accordingly.

Cloyce drove the car running rough, because you had to follow directions. Dad shrugged it off. You can't make a guy make sense.

A United Kingdom Review

I must admit that, overall, I'm pleased with the reviews which my books are garnering. Further, I feel that a particularly good review ought to be recognized.

A fellow from England who purchased my book David Gideon had this to say:

I feel like whenever I see a book about politics I feel that it will be really boring as I'm not into that world at all.

But this book and the author surprised me with this story it is really good content and a properly written story with a shocking twist and upside downs.

Definitely recommended political fiction!

Thank you! I can't tell you how much such kind words mean to me. That's exactly the sentiment that I hoped to instill in the minds of readers when I wrote the story. David Gideon isn't really about politics. It's just the story of a good man and the good people behind him. His political career is there simply to drive the story. 

I feel good today. It's nice to be able to reach someone an ocean away who gets my point.

By the way, David Gideon is available here.

July 4, 2025

We're still a great nation which has done great things. While we have our flaws, and who isn't flawed, we exist as a beacon of hope for many. And we are certainly not nearly as bad as even too many Americans seem to think. But hubris, like all error, is endemic to the human condition.

So I'll grill today and then go see fireworks tonight, and be thankful for the blessings of being an American.

God Bless the USA. Happy Independence Day everyone.

Modern Ball

I love baseball and as a rule am not fond of the new. Anything new, although if it's worthwhile I have been known to warm up to it. I don't live entirely in the Twentieth Century; I think radio is here to stay.

There are those baseball fans who consider themselves purists to a far greater degree than myself. I don't like the designated hitter and I hate the free runner on second to begin extra innings. Yet the folks I'm speaking about like to play the game by very old school rules. It's common to find teams who play according to the rulebook of 1867 and even earlier. They assert that it's a better game. 

Um, no. The modern game with its speed and greater defense and livelier baseballs is a far greater game. The batter (sorry, 'striker') directing the pitcher (I forget his old timey name) what type of throw he'd like? Not really challenging, I would argue.

Of course, the game then was predicated on putting the ball in play, so there is that. If the old rules are what the participants like, all right. It can even be quaint to hear the fielders yell, wrong hander!, when a lefty comes to bat. But after that? Give me modern ball. It is a better game.

July 2

Today is our actual Independence Day, though few realize it. The Second Continental Congress passed the resolution for Independence on July 2,1776. It's known as the Lee Resolution, introduced to Congress by Richard Henry Lee of Virginia, and reads: 

Resolved, That these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States, that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved.

It has a ringing quality all it's own, don't you think?

When John Adams wrote of the 'fireworks, pomp and parade' which he foresaw as future celebrations of our independence, he presumed they would occur on future July 2nds. Yet the Declaration of Thomas Jefferson took hold (he did include the resolution within it by the way), and an evolving precedence deemed that July 4th should forever be the anniversary of American Independence.

There is today's history lesson for you, on this most, if forgotten, historic day.

English Golfspeak

You have to love English golf commentators. They do know their native language and deliver it with a certain subdued style.

While watching an event on the European PGA Tour early one morning I heard two examples of this talent. One golfer barely missed a putt. And I mean barely, just grazing the cup. The commentator noted, "When he misses, he doesn't miss by much. He scares the hole."

Hah. He scares the hole.

On an errant tee shot, a golfer was begging the ball, "Right. Go right. Go right." It didn't go right. The announcer said, "Despite his heartfelt entreaties, the ball mocked him and did as it pleased."

I do like golf these days. Not necessarily for the actual golf either.