Emergency Not?

Last Tuesday I took a call from a plumber, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who said he needed 4 drain snake cables. "Believe it or not, Cosgriff, my own sewer's plugged, ha, ha!"

"It can happen to any of us, eh, Cloyce? Well, I got plenty, come on by."

"Okay. You gonna be in Friday?"

"Well, yes."

"Great. See you then, Cosgriff." You do you, Cloyce, but when my sewer has backed up, ASAP isn't quick enough to get it open. But, fine, if that suits you.

Friday morning he called back. "Can I get those cables at 4, Cosgriff?"

"Absolutely."

"Cool. See you then"

Cloyce calls at three. "I ain't gonna make it. Can we meet next week?"

"It would have to be Tuesday. I'm not available Monday." 

"Tuesday's good, Cosgriff." 

We'll see if he shows. I'm surprised Mrs. Cloyce isn't on his case. Either way, I don't get it. When there's nasty sewer water on my basement floor, it's gotta go, right now kapow. But, you do you, Cloyce.

Ram Parts

One of the many neat tools you can buy from Electric Eel is a little cylindrical unit called a Kinetic Water Ram. It has a pump with which you can build up air pressure, and a trigger whereby you release it. You stick it over a drain opening, build up the pressure, and wham! A burst of air opens the line. Neat, huh?

But like anything else it requires service from time to time. After a lot of use the washers inside the unit wear so that it won't hold pressure, for example. There's a repair kit available for when this happens.

One day a customer called and explained his trouble and I said he needed that kit. He asked if I'd order it and call him when it arrived. Fair enough; we do that regularly. I told him sure.

When the Ram repair kit came a day or two later I called the guy to let him know it was in. Thanks, he said, but he was by then in the middle of a large plumbing job and couldn't get to my Shop for a couple days. No problem, I replied, we'd hold it for him.

As I hung up the phone I sat and I looked at the kit. O'er the Ram parts we watch, I thought.

Not bad. Not bad at all. To me.

Ready, Set, No.

The 8 foot long drain cleaning cables I sell come in barrels of 20. At just about a pound a foot, that's 160 pounds each. At 66, I appreciate help lifting them into the new old van. Indeed, it's almost a necessity, though I can manage it if I must.

Wednesday last I went to Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs) and was happy to have me brother Phil along. But I did learn that when you ask a question, it's really important to wait for the answer.

I rolled a barrel up to the side door of the van and leaned it backwards for us to lift. As we each bent down opposite one another and began to take hold of the barrel I asked, "Ready?" and immediately started to lift.

"No," Phil replied. Consequently, I nearly heaved myself into a hernia. Fortunately, my hands just slipped off the barrel, and I was able to regain my balance with one backward step.

Have a question for someone? Wait. For. The. Reply. Your back will appreciate it.

No to the New Narnia

They can't leave anything alone, can they? Hollywood won't respect established source material, and I am sick of it.

The latest travesty comes from a reboot of the famed and well-loved Narnia children's books written by C. S. Lewis. Aslan, a male lion and obvious Christ figure, is the penultimate character in the stories, the true guiding light. The fifth title in the series, and my second favorite (after The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, which begins the Narnia tales), The Magician's Nephew, was lined up for being put on film. I was genuinely excited.

And then they cast Meryl Steep to voice Aslan. After promising to be true to the original books too.

You want to know why I don't care, liberal, progressive friends, about President Trump seeking to rename lakes and mountains? You have no respect yourselves for what has been well established for years, but you have the gall to be righteously indignant over Lake America or the Gulf of America? It dirties your mantle.

A female actor, even a well-known and respected one, voicing a male Christ figure. A character created by a serious, traditional Christian who surely would object. Damn your characters and intentions, Lewis. We know better how to express your meaning. That's Hollywood's modus operandi.

Well, express away. You won't do it on my dime, a dime you certainly would have gotten had you played it right. The bulk of Lewis readers and Narnia fans won't pony up either, I'm sure. Of course, you'll only argue Narnia wasn't really marketable, or that fans like me are somehow sexist or palpably self righteous ourselves. Har-umph. You might try an iota of introspection. Just one little bit.

Instead, no respect for fans or original sources. You're better than them and that, aren't you? 

Old Oil

The things me Grandpa Joe used to have us do at the old barn make me shake my head these days. At the time I didn't think much about it, but looking back, I often wonder why.

The gasoline powered welding machines he had had long side panels which folded upwards to allow access to the engine and welding unit. These panels (which were as I recall where about four foot in length) had what amounted to long hinges. That they required occasional greasing I get. Joe did that with old oil.

We changed the oil in our own cars back then, and the engines on the welders needed changing too of course. Joe would save all the old oil and have teens like me at the time paint the gray, sticky goo across and into the hinges.

Suffice it to say, it left you smelling like oil. It got oil all over everything: your clothes, the entirety of the machine, and a lot on the cement. For days afterwards you would get a light spray of oil when opening a panel on the machine. It was simply one big, slick, greasy mess.

I understand his reasoning. He felt the oil penetrated well, that it worked itself more into the joints. But thinking back on it, I have to believe there were actual penetrating oils which might have been less hassle: WD-40 or something. But back then I was only a 14 year old doing as he was told. Thinking wasn't in my job description. Joe did that for me...for whatever that's worth.

Extending greetings

As regular readers know, I try to walk for an hour every morning when weather and circumstances permit. That leads to an average of five days a week, nine months of the year. December through February get iffy.

Other than for the sake of the exercise itself, one thing I try to do while walking is to greet everyone I meet. It's interesting that a simple 'good morning' can appear to make other folks smile. I can't tell you how many people approach where you can see they're keeping their heads down, unsure whether they should make contact. Then I say "Good Morning!" and they invariably smile and say it back. I like to think it's good for us both.

To be sure, some do not respond, or respond surly. Yet I try not to let that bother me. I don't know what's on their minds or how their lives have been lately, so why make a big deal of it? Even if they are surly by nature, my good morning certainly can't hurt.

It all actually makes my walks better. I've never been much on psychology but I can see that when we choose a good attitude we tend to develop one. With that in mind I say to all of you out there, Good Morning!

Or good afternoon if you don't see this until then.

Going by the Numbers

Did you know that in 1953, Joe Cosgriff Welding Machine rentals bought more new Hobart welders than anyone else in the country except Ford and Chrysler? Well, now you do. I'm not sure how many units that was, but it must have been a lot.

At its height I know me Grandpa had over 200 welders. In the 1970s, I remember them being numbered up to 210, the Shop number painted on the top with the prefix JC. That number, of course, does not include the total number of machines he ever owned. Things go bad; things get scrapped out or, horrors, stolen.

I'll tell what impressed me most, though: me Pops had every serial number memorized. If I asked him the 'Joe Cosgriff' number, say, JC-167, he'd rattle off the machine's factory assigned serial number. Right now kapow. I was awed by that when I was 10. I'm still awed by it. I mean, we're not talking simple little four or five digits with maybe a letter. We're talking number and letter combinations like 12CW5497 or 5DW68873. I remember the 5DW ones were 400 amp welders, so there was a code to it which could help memorization. But still, over 200 (likely closer to 300 counting machines out of use over time) committed to memory? Wow.

Now they're all gone. The last one we rented, fittingly enough, was the month Joe died, August 1991. The last ones we had we sold to a guy who shipped them to Nigeria. Yes, that sounds like a joke. But it's what the fella told the old man, and he paid cash. He could do whatever he wanted with them after that.

There. Now you're all set for when 'Cosgriff welders' is the Jeopardy category.

Spinning

Just when you think it's safe to go outside...

I was diagnosed with Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo, or maybe Meniere's Disease, or something, about ten years ago. Call it what you will, what it means is that I get dizzy and they don't know why. 

I haven't had a major episode in several years. I had hoped it was in my past. I take vitamin D as recommended, and do the exercises, and hydrate, just like I'm supposed to. Then, around four in the morning today, I was sliding along the wall to get to the bathroom. Yes, I'm old too.

This is not fun.

Don't Cross or Blur the Lines

The Lindsay Clancy trial has brought about strong emotions, and understandably. There are serious and profound issues of justice involved, issues of basic right and wrong, and none are to be taken lightly. We must be able to speak out; we must be able to say things which need saying, even to be strident and emphatic. Justice requires that we draw a hard line.

But it does not require casual, flippant, mean-spirited comments. Indeed, justice condemns them. There are things you simply cannot say or do.

We must never, ever, under any circumstances, wish or presume Hell on anyone. Holy Mother Church has named many Saints. She has never proclaimed anyone to be in or deserving of Hell. Not even Judas Iscariot. If the Bride of Christ will not do it, neither may we. No matter what.

We must never, ever, under any circumstances, encourage violence against the person. We must not, for example, tell someone to kill themselves, no matter how heinous the acts they commit. It's just plain wrong.

Christian charity is required of all of us, at all times. This may be most necessary when the most important questions are at play. For while we may be, and perhaps ought to be, strident, we may never become subhuman. Or act as though others are.

Snorting Coke?

No, it isn't what you think. But what a hook, huh?

The traffic light caught me as I made a Michigan left on Telegraph Road in Taylor yesterday. As it happened, directly across from me as I waited I saw a family restaurant which used to be a Denny's. It was a Denny's when I was in high school back in the seventies (the NINETEEN seventies, just to clarify). My friends and I back then ate there with some modest regularity.

One such time, six of us stopped there on a Saturday night after a movie for a late dinner. We ordered food and pop. Of course, with six people there were orders for a few different types of pop: Coke, Dr. Pepper, and likely even a Diet Pepsi were in the mix. The waitress as was the norm brought our drinks first.

Only she had apparently forgotten who ordered what and what was what. She had too neglected to somehow mark them as some servers did even then, with two straws for the Coke, one for the Dr. Pepper, and so forth. So arriving at our booth, the young woman improvised. She stuck her nose almost into a pop, snorted loudly and, deciding the first was a Coke, handed it to one of us who ordered one. Then she snorted the next, another Coke, and set it before the next of us, then likewise determined which was the Dr. Pepper and handed it out.

Caught between silent snickering and uproarious laughter, we did what teenage boys would naturally do. We laughed uproariously. The girl looked at us as if we were insane and asked if everything was okay.

It more than was. In fact, her entertainment was better than the movie we had seen. It brought a whole new meaning to snorting coke.

Another 9/11

Twenty-five years have now passed since what may become the defining point of a generation. Sixteen years, almost to the minute as this is being written, terrorists attacked the Pentagon, the World Trade Center, and were overcome by the passengers of an airplane over the hills of Pennsylvania. All that time, and we still cannot make any sense of it.

The trouble is that there is no sense to be made. To be sure, we can understand the reasons for even such terrible actions, in the same way that we can understand the reasons Hitler did what he did. Yet that is not the same as understanding.

How do we, how can we, come to actually understand rape or murder or thievery, mass murder or any any other evil which may be added to such a gruesome list, if we are to be decent human beings ourselves? It is only in a warped mind where such heinous acts may be justified. As such, reasonable people simply cannot understand them. It is beyond their ability; it is, to them, pure nonsense.

So the goal today should be to remember. Remember the victims and their families, remember the countless acts of heroism that day, remember even the perpetrators of such despicable carnage if for no other reason than to remind ourselves that such twisted souls do exist, seeking the ruin of those not in lockstep with them. But hopefully, remember even so that their redemption may be possible. If we are the good people we claim to be, even that shouldn't be so difficult of a task on so difficult of an anniversary.

About Lindsay

Jeffrey Dahmer. Ted Bundy. David Berkowitz. Charles Manson. And yes, yes I am. I'm about to add Lindsay Clancy to this list.

I'll be blunt: you have to have at least a touch of insanity to commit gruesome murder. Every person on that list demonstrated a degree of it, at times to reprehensible proportions. Ted Bundy violated the corpses of his victims until they were too decomposed to be of any use for his wicked desires. Berkowitz thought, if we can take him at his word, a dog from Satan was ordering him to kill. Charles Manson? He clearly broke the code of the Beatles' White Album to gain instruction. You get the point.

Lindsay Clancy systematically executed her three small children. She clearly put a lot of thought into it. Was she insane? I'm not sure if or how much that matters. 

The men on this list were put to death, or, at least, institutionalized for life. Jurors created no excuses for them. Yet "He had the hardest time getting off the fact that Lindsay viciously killed her children," said one Clancy juror, knocking the holdout juror who would not grant a not guilty verdict. That statement itself is insane. She couldn't hear the profound stupidity in what she was saying?

Another juror said the holdout couldn't point to one piece of evidence for a guilty verdict. Does Lindsay murdered her children not count? Again, an insane comment.

This type of dismissal of murder one worries me more about the future of humanity than the Iran War, Donald Trump or AOC, homelessness and many other societal ills. A segment of society is trying to defend murder based on mental health. Never mind that thousands of women who suffered post-partum depression did not kill their babies. Lindsay should not get excused for that. What kind of jury pool do we have when folks think that way? Are any of us safe when and if such an attitude towards very basic questions of justice permeates society?

Did you notice she wasn't quite so successful at killing herself? Yet she was a nurse. She surely knew how to accomplish that. If she actually meant to. Yes, I think her attempt at suicide a rather obvious subterfuge.

Bundy got the chair. Manson died in prison. Clancy should be in jail or confined to a mental institution. For life. An overwrought sympathy for her dilemma if, and that's a big if, she really was momentarily crazy, is a denial of justice to her children, and thoroughly despicable.

Cleveland

This past weekend was a great one, for me anyway. My sons and I spent it in Cleveland, Ohio, where there was more to do that I had expected.

For starters, we picked the right baseball game to attend. The tumbling Detroit Tigers lost three of four to Cleveland, but won Saturday night 6-0, the game we saw. I picked up another MLB hat, and the Cleveland home cap is a nice one. It will see the light of day from time to time as I try to rotate my baseball hats; no point having them if all they do is sit in boxes. 

Sunday we saw the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. One of my favorite bands, Paul McCartney and Wings, were the centerpiece display, so it was pretty cool to view that retrospective along with all the other exhibits. There was even a chance to vote on the 2027 inductees to the Hall. I voted for Weird Al Yankovic. He deserves it. I mean it.

The Hall is right on Lake Erie, and as it happened there was an air show. After the Hall, we were treated to the Blue Angels, the US Navy's tactical flying squad. Very impressive, close quarters formations. Those pilots must have nerves of steel.

We ended the main part of our visit watching Coyote vs. Acme at a restored theater (The Capitol) just off downtown. A great place to see a movie, and Coyote vs. Acme, about Wile E Coyote suing the ACME corporation for its defective products (anyone who has seen the old Warner Brothers cartoons know ACME) was worthy of the hype. I laughed out loud often. 

As always seems to be the case, it was over all too soon. C'est la vie. We'll just have to improve on it next year.

Shared Birthdays

As I picked up my rental car the other day, I dutifully offered a credit card and my driver's license to the young woman at the counter. "Hey! We have the same birthday!"

"You're 66?" I exclaimed.

She did not find the joke as funny as I did...

First Fruits

An Amazon reader mentioned this about my book A Subtle Armageddon: 

What I really enjoyed about the book was Mr. Cosgriff’s attention to detail. I could feel the things the man was experiencing for the first time. The way he described the man tasting an apple and drinking water for the first time was written really well. I thoroughly enjoyed man’s first encounter with wine! I’m a true crime/cozy mystery buff but I’m telling you, this book did not disappoint.

Thank you, dear reader! That's one of the points I want to get across. This last man on Earth begins with a total lack of experience of anything. Neither the world of the mind nor the physical world have any meaning to him as his journey begins. I want you to feel what he's feeling as he discovers the things around him, things we take for granted. yet what if we were to experience them for the first time? What would that apple taste like? What would sunrise and sunset mean to him as he saw the first of each? How could these experiences create a fully human being out of him?

Intrigued? Look here for the answers to these and other important questions.

Donut Anxiety

For a few years I taught college test prep classes. In an attempt to make students feel more comfortable and, hopefully, more open to learning, we allowed food and snacks in our classrooms. So I thought little initially when a young woman brought coffee and a donut into class one day. She set down her coffee, put the donut on a napkin, and, with the rest of the students, dutifully opened a textbook to the page I had indicated.

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 consumed 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.

Lamenting the World

Everything, it seems, is a catastrophe these days. But is the modern world really that much different than the worlds left to history?

To be sure, there are superficial differences, and I don't mean superficial as unimportant. I mean it as not different in a substantial way. The atomic bomb is really only 'one more terrible way to die in a world filled with terrible ways to die' said the writer C. S. Lewis. I just finished a book about Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo and believe me, many of those soldiers died horrible, gruesome deaths. My point is that scale doesn't necessarily add to substance. Men have been horrible to other men pretty much forever.

It will continue. There is no antidote, no way to prevent abominations of any sort. That's not to say that we shouldn't try. But even if we could prevent evil in one area, it's going to happen in another. In no way might we anticipate where the next awful thing will appear. Quite bluntly and, I will add, obviously, we do not have the capability to see the future. We only have the evidence of human failure, which points to continuing failure.

I think the problem, and I do look at it as a problem, is the furious rush of bad things which inundate our world. We hear about everything that happens almost instantaneously. It makes the world appear worse. Most of the time it's bad news because that sells, another curse which always is with us. The spigot ought to be turned off, if for no other reason that it isn't good for our collective or individual mental health. 

There will always be, as me Grandpa Joe might say, the next catastastroke. I rather believe the best we can do is do right in our own lives, help others when we can, and not fret too much about the rest. You weren't born to save the world. You were born, if I might co-opt Jordan Peterson, to clean your room. Seeing to yourself might just be the best way to fix the world.

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.

The Pumpkin Spice Wars

Ah, Facebook. You do encourage folks to get lathered up about trivialities. 

Almost every day lately I've seen memes which hammer at the onrushing autumn and it's mavens who love pumpkin spice everything. It's not unlike those (one of whom might be me) who lament Christmas displays being raised in mid-October, nosing out Halloween when it's still two weeks away. "Summer isn't over until September 22!" one friend, or, more to the point, one friend's meme yelled. "Put your pumpkin spice lattes away while I have another margarita!" Ah, hilarity.

But I've noticed that weathermen say something different. They say that fall begins September 1st. Meteorological fall begins today. We are, to those stout professionals, at this very minute already in autumn.

There, I've sold both sides ammunition. Entertain me. Start the Pumpkin Spice Wars.

Using a Cheater

You're about to learn something about drain snake repair, but I'm sure it's a lesson which can be equitably applied to any and all repairs, whether at work or in the household.

The SC-10-A drive shaft on an Electric Eel Model C is held in place with (2) 5/16 allen screws. Most of the time they come loose fairly easily. Yet as all things made by human hands, things don't always go according to plan. In the case of these screws, they sometimes seize. They insolently will not come out. When that happens you either heat them with a torch in an attempt to coax them out, or do what I do. Put a length of pipe over the top of the allen wrench, a 'cheater' as me Pops taught me, to give you greater leverage turning the wrench.

Now, I know there is a school of thought that you should never ever, ever use a cheater bar. Well, me Grandpa Joe and me Pops both believed in them, so I believe in them. So there.

Anyways, you turn the wrench with the cheater, increasing pressure as you go, and one of three things will happen. You will either (A) break the allen wrench, (B) strip the allen head on the screw, or (C) you will hear a tiny but sharp little 'ting' exactly as the wrench turns suddenly. That ting is either good or bad. But usually, it's good. Usually it means that screw has broken loose and you are seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Your job will soon be over.

The good bad ting. Listen for it when you do your own repairs. And don't be afraid to use a cheater.

Full Speed Ahead

The Rosary is a set of prayers widely said by Catholics. It is made up of traditional prayers well known to most: The Our Father, Hail Mary, and Glory Be, said in a particular sequence. 

But there are variations. Most folks, when they say prayers, say them with a certain pacing. 'Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee'. So it is with the Rosary generally.

Yet me Pops, having grown up in a parish staffed by Dominican priests, always said there were Rosaries, and then there was the Dominican Rosary. It was said very, very fast, almost at a machine gun rate. HailMaryfullofgracetheLordiswiththeblessedartThouamongsywomenandblessedisthefruitofthywombJesus.

Could you follow that? Then you might be a Dominican.

Joe's Birthday

Today is me Grandpa Joe's birthday. He would have been 121. Sure, that would not be a likely age for him to have made. But I can imagine the hell he would have raised if he had.

He passed away August 27, 1991, just shy of 86, so we buried him pretty close to his birthday. He smoked heavy from his teens (his doctor at the end remarked that his lungs were probably like leather). No doubt some tobacco farmer lived the high life because of Joe. 

I remember him smoking Carltons. It's a silly thing to be sentimental over but I can still see clearly those red packages they came in, and him opening a fresh one on his front porch, tearing the cellophane off with a carpet knife because that's what he did when something didn't open readily enough. Which, for his purposes, they typically would not. 

He went home in style. Me Pops rented a large black Chevy Suburban and drove Joe back to Jacksonville, Illinois for internment. Joe always promised himself he was going to buy one new car before he died. He never did, but his last trip was in one. I wonder if, perhaps, that was Pops' salute to his old man.

Down at the funeral home in Jacksonville I remember me and me cousin Art were standing by the casket. One or the other of us said, "This ain't right."

"What?" the other asked.

"He can't leave this world without a pack of cigarettes."

"I'll get the smokes, you get the lighter," I said. Off we were to find a store. I bought a pack of Carltons for the first and only time in my life. Art got the lighter. The undertaker solemnly placed both in the vest pocket of Joe's suit.

A little while later we were talking to an uncle, telling him what we'd done. "I don't know that that was a good idea," Uncle remarked. "What if that butane mixes with the gases of the body decomposing? It might cause an explosion."

Hell, Joe would have loved that! Dirt spraying up and the headstone falling over to the side? Magnificent. And I can't help imagining me Grandma Cosgriff lying next to him, shaking her head and tsk tsking. She had to do that often enough in life, and now two of her grandkids go and give Joe one final reason to annoy her. Everyone else in the cemetery would be thinking, 'That's just Joe'. Grandpa would simply be cackling in the way he always did when he found something funny, a hee hee hee as though forced out of his body.

Happy Birthday Joe. I know you're still rooting that explosion.

Can't be that busy

I remember me Pops would frequently ask, to no one in particular and everyone in general, "You ever notice that the guys who claim they're the busiest always have the time to tell you how busy they are?" It sure seems that way.

I had a customer at the Shop yesterday who came in (without his machine for some reason) and wanted to know how much and how long to put a chuck on his Eel. I told the man twenty five bucks and we could do it while he waits. "Cool. Let me go get my machine Cosgriff and I'll be right back. I got a lotta jobs waiting."

He left to get his machine an hour later. Several times in the interim as he was supposedly about to leave he would stop before reaching the door and ask about a cutter, or the turnaround time on rewiring his unit, or simply to tell me about how much he loves his Model C Eel. I ended up fibbing to him and said I had to close at three, just to expedite things. Well, to move him on anyway. "Okay, Cosgriff. Let me go get it 'cause I'm really busy. Got a lotta jobs lined up."

I hope he was very busy, because he was really selling me on the point. Yet he did not return by three. Or by my actual closing for that matter.

Trashy Cloyce

The sectional drain snake cables which I sell come in large barrels. They're maybe three feet high and about two feet wide. They make great garbage cans once I've sold the cables, as they're just about the ideal size for 33 gallon trash bags. I have a couple in the Shop set aside for that purpose.

Once a plumber, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, came down from Saginaw to buy some cables. He paid me, and then grabbed a barrel. "What do you think you're doing?" I demanded.

"I'm loading my barrel, Marty," a confused and somewhat annoyed Cloyce responded.

"Well, if you really want to drive my trash to Saginaw, Cloyce, who am I to deny you the pleasure?" I then explained what he was doing, latching onto the first barrel he saw thinking it filled with sectional cables. Peals of laughter and much knee slapping then rang throughout the old barn.

Raw Reviews

Daniel, a reviewer, says this about my book David Gideon:

Hands down one of the best books I’ve read in a while! This book just continues to captivate me and I’m always left wanting more. There’s so much raw emotion and the plot pulls you in quickly. If you like themes of this type of book , rewriting history, and solid character development pick this up now and you won’t regret it!

I must say an emphatic thank you to Daniel. Such encouraging words are heart warming, to say the least.

Would Charles Martin Cosgriff's novel David Gideon leave you hungry for me? Find out here. Why? Because maybe Daniel's onto something.

Still No Sign Of Land

Yes, I know I said just this past Sunday that I loathe commenting on social issues these days, yet here I am again. C'est la guerre.

The WNBA thing recalls, for quite obvious reasons, questions of women's rights. But see here: if you don't know what a woman is, how can you speak of women's rights? All talk of women's rights is only just so much nonsense, complete and utter nonsense in fact, if you don't or can't know what a woman is. 

Human rights presume human beings. Property rights presume property. It would be indelibly and profoundly stupid, indeed incomprehensible, to argue for property rights if no such things as property or ownership existed and could be defined in language understandable by all. Likewise, if you don't know what a woman is, what are you arguing for? What rights can possibly exist within the indefinite?

If you don't know what a woman is you cannot speak of women's rights, precisely because such things do not exist if there aren't women. Responding, as many of our progressive friends do, that a woman is whatever she says she is, is not an answer. It's begging the question and, quite frankly, cannot produce intelligent conversation. It's deflection, a shallow debater's trick to stymie any useful conclusion. Tell me what a woman is and then we can speak of her rights. Until then, you're just wasting your breath and my time.

Fruit Salad

Under doctor's orders, I am resolved to try to eat better. Let's see how long this lasts. 

Now, to be fair to me, a few years ago when I embarked on a similar voyage I actually did manage to lose twenty pounds and drop my blood pressure thirty eight points. So hey, it can happen. Deep within my being is some semblance of willpower.

Last Friday I was heading into my local supermarket determined to get fried fish from their deli as my lunch. Then that lurking spirit of will crept up. Passing the deli counter I approached the fresh fruit, where some reasonably priced fruit salads were on display. The one I selected had a mixture of watermelon, cantaloupe, and honeydew, obvious through the plastic container. The bottom layer seemed to me to be black olives. That struck me as odd, olives in a fruit salad. But I like black olives, so I bought it.

Once home and checking email, I ate the fruit rather quickly and went after an olive. The sweet taste informed me that the black olives were in fact grapes. 

It all makes sense to me now. Fruit salad wouldn't have any bit of vegetable, would it?

The WNBA Fiasco

Long ago, I decided to hold back on political and social commentary in this here blog. Writing lighter stuff was more fun, it did not get one drawn into tedious arguments, and truly helps a body stay mentally healthy. But, damn, sometimes staying away is a hard pledge to keep.

Take the entire fiasco surrounding the WNBA, the Women's National Basketball Association. I'm going to cut right to the chase: we all know what a woman is, and to argue anything contrary is simply intellectual dishonesty. Yet there are those who try. That's worse than not being honest. I'm tempted to say they are flat out liars.

But here's this women's group, with the term women all over the place, and they can't make up their mind what it means? Hogwash. They don't want to make up their minds. They don't want to make a definitive statement. If they actually affirm what a woman is, they can't support other things which they very much want to aggrandize. 

Then two biological men call their bluff. Well, good for them.

I know it's a grandstand play on their part, but so what? Make the WNBA say what a woman is, or make them live their creed (whatever the hell it is). Make them commit, or be, heh, heh, committed. Live your dream right down to its logical conclusion, ladies, or admit what is patently obvious to all. Stop being the emperor in new clothes. Start being rational human beings. 

Interim David Gideon

Here were go again! Some kind observations about my book The Interim Generation:

Writersive on Amazon says: I mistakenly got the third book first but to my surprise it reads well as a standalone. I really love the engaging concept and captivating storyline. I'm hooked! Definitely getting the earlier 2 books for sure!

Why thank you! I'm certainly okay with that approach, especially as I try to style my books as stand alones!

See more about The Interim Generation: Interim

Josh offers this about David Gideon: This book truly is a very entertaining literary book. The story really is quite creative and illustrates the life of a fictional character named David, who apparently had a wide arrange of professions over his lifetime. Overall the story highlights different elements of suspense, drama, intrigue, and even inspires leadership. Leadership is actually one of the big qualities that the main character begins to recognize in himself. Overall a very satisfying read!

Check out what others are saying: DG

I'm really, really happy with the progress of my writings. Thank you all!

David Gideon

It's here. It's available. My revised novel about an everyman who happens to become President has now been released. You can check it out here:

David Gideon

We all know that an everyman could never be President; politics will typically destroy men and women of principle and common sense. But David Gideon is about more than that. It's a story of a good man's life, and the interactions and prodding of his closest friends.

I've been told by several people that it's an easy read which tells a compelling tale. I hope so, because that's what I was going by for: a straightforward story of a principled man committed to doing things right and well. The actual political machinations I purposely kept to a minimum precisely because they would be dull. Campaigns are glossed over in part because no sane individual cares about them. The novel is about the man David Gideon, not the politician David Gideon. That man is only incidental to the story.

David is just a guy committed to his family and friends who otherwise wants to be left alone, but is called to something higher. It's a bit Capraesque, and maybe a bit corny. I like to fancy that it appeals to the soul, that little voice inside us who wants things to be right, to be the way they ought to be. I enjoyed his story and I think you would too.

Obsession

I am not a fan of the sabermetrics push, this seeming willingness to reduce analysis to numbers. It began with baseball but is spreading not only to other sports, but apparently everywhere. And while numbers can be important, as with many other things in life they aren't necessarily the know all be all.

Me Pops liked to talk about Frank Lary, a pitcher on the Detroit Tigers sixty years ago. He was nicknamed the Yankee Killer because he had extraordinary success against that New York team. I'm sure the sabermetricians have an explanation for why, but I suspect it was really only simple fate. Sometimes things just happen, they just are what they are. Lary owned the Yanks. That's how it was. Is an explanation necessary, helpful, or even obtainable by reason and analysis? I doubt it.

As I said, it's going beyond baseball. The absurdity is, it seems, to be found in other areas. I stumbled across an article the other day which declared, after thorough analysis of the structure of various Beatles songs, their hit In My Life,  a truly wonderful song, was with a 98% chance of accuracy written primarily by John Lennon. We should be astounded by that revelation...except that virtually everyone connected to the song (although, to be fair, Paul McCartney debates the point) have long conceded that it was a Lennon tune. Why are we even analyzing it then?

I mean, how much more can we know, how much more useful information can additional study bring? Especially when there probably isn't a worthwhile final answer, as with that old Yankee Killer Lary. Sometimes it's simply how things happened, nothing more.

Perhaps it helps you to know that a certain right handed batter is more likely to hit a double at 3:12 on a Thursday afternoon in Cleveland with runners on first and third with one out in the fourth and an easterly wind of 8 MPH off of a lefty pitcher who was drafted from Vanderbilt in the second round, was born in Decatur, Illinois, and had blue eyes. Well, there you have it. Place your bets on such hyper trivia. But you'll have more fun just enjoying the game, watching to see what actually happens rather than anticipating bare chance.

Marty's Armageddon

The first book I ever wrote to completion is A Subtle Armageddon. The following is the Amazon link, and notice you can buy a kindle version. I have my son and daughter in law to thank for that. Their work on it is very much appreciated.

A Subtle Armageddon

My inspiration is found in C. S. Lewis' The Abolition of Man. What, I wondered, would be the embodiment of a true last man on Earth, based on Lewis's conjecture that such a man would be an entirely 'made' man. But made how and of what, and by whom and for what purpose, that man himself could not know. Or could he? On that question I built my story.

I'm rather proud of Armageddon, to be honest, particularly (spoiler alert) the very last line. I fancy it the best turn of phrase I've come up with, at least so far. But if you don't understand the point of the book that quiet little sentence will surely fall flat. 

I don't know if that's the case. Yet the question which has always been at the back of my mind since I finished the thing was whether I made the point reasonably easy to see. I didn't want it to be too easy because that, in my opinion, would spoil the read. At the same time if the basic idea for writing it doesn't come through to the average reader then it may not be a good book at all, the very end notwithstanding.

And that's what troubles me. I've always been afraid that A Subtle Armageddon is somewhat obscure. I'm not sure that the reader will get the point. But if you're game to try, it's free through Kindle Unlimited, and I would love to hear your opinion. 

Moving On

Today's missive is courtesy of the Department of Trivial yet Interesting Information to Baseball Fans.

Baseball fans know that teams have sometimes changed cities. At least three have moved twice (one of them, uh, thrice): the Braves, Athletics, and Orioles. The Braves were in Boston, Milwaukee, and currently Atlanta; the Athletics Philadelphia, Kansas City, Oakland, and next, supposedly, Las Vegas. The Orioles began in Milwaukee, ventured to St. Louis, and call Baltimore home these days. There are other instances of franchises finding new locales as well. But does anyone know about the teams who nearly abandoned their original home towns?

Cleveland seriously looked at relocating to Minneapolis in the 1950s. The St. Louis Browns were all set to move to Los Angeles for the 1942 season, but World War II and its travel restrictions got in the way. The St. Louis Cardinals nearly moved to Houston, but the Busch family and beer money saved them (and forced the Browns to move to Baltimore in 1953). It's all trivial yet interesting stuff to baseball wonks.

But what always gives me the opportunity to wipe my forehead and say, "Phew! That was a close one," is that the American League almost moved my beloved Detroit Tigers to Pittsburgh in the early 1900s, to compete directly with the National League's Pirates. Detroit was the smallest city in the AL at the time and the Powers that Be questioned whether it could support major league baseball. Thankfully that move did not happen. And we showed 'em that Detroit is a worthy baseball town, didn't we, Tiger fans?

Out Of The Loop

The things you learn as time goes by.

I had to take a car to a mechanic due to overheating issues. At one time I would have attacked the problem myself. I mean, the possible troubles are few (I did mess around with it a bit): radiator (which appeared all right) hoses (which showed no breaks or leaks) cooling fan (which seemed to work) and thermostat. Yet with all the additional hoses and valves and sensors which vehicles are mobbed with these days, I felt better taking it to an expert.

I'm glad I did. Did you know that 2010 Jeeps have not one but two thermostats? I'd have never guessed that. I would have determined where the one I expected was likely to be and not given a thought to finding another. To be sure, I might have tried You Tube videos (which have helped me diagnose and repair other problems on other stuff) but how long might that take? It's simpler to take it to a mechanic.

I suppose the complications make cars better. Still, it's a bit sad that Shade Tree Marty is out of a job.

Trouble Comes Calling

I sell drain cleaning machines. As such, every now and then a guy will come into the old barn and ask me - me - for advice on the subject. Imagine that.

The other day a plumber came by and asked for my thoughts on trying to use a steel cable drain snake which was 1-1/4 inches in diameter in a pipe which was 1-1/2 inches wide. Further, said pipe had two 90 degree turns in it. Someone with no plumbing or drain cleaning experience at all can surely see there isn't anywhere near enough clearance for that to work out well.

What did I think, he asked.

I think that you're not only asking for trouble, but laying out the welcome mat and insisting it stay for dinner. Get a smaller machine with a smaller cable. 

But that's just me. I do think I talked him out of it, though.

Bereft of Hope

Some days I truly believe in humanity. Then reality kicks in.

The other day I was waiting in the drive through lane for my order. In front of me, not one, but two cars were so far away from the pickup window that the drivers had to step out the door to grab their food. This despite their windows being open. I point that out to show there was a problem with them. The drivers were simply too far back.

Some days I truly believe. But today I believe that people are stupid.

The Old Ball Game

We, myself, me Pops, and me Grandpa Joe, all lived within two blocks of the Shop, the old barn where we worked when we weren't telling tall tales. It wasn't unusual for any one of us to head home for this or that reason during the work day.

Joe left for his house on some errand early one afternoon. About ten minutes later, the phone rang. "Bill, I think Joe's collapsed out on Hancock street," a worried neighbor told him.

Dad bolted from the Shop. He was quickly on Hancock, but could see from well back it wasn't his father laying along the curb. Still, whoever it was ought to be checked. Me Pops went up to him. 

The man on the ground was face up, staring into the clouds. "You okay, fella?" Dad asked him.

"Oh yeah. I'm just watching the ball game," the guy answered. 

"Ah. Well, who's winning?" Me Pops returned.

"I don't know. I just got to my seat." About then an ambulance pulled up. Apparently Anxious Neighbor had, rightly, already called one. Dad had done his duty, so he stepped back for the EMTs to do theirs.

If It Suited Joe

I do wonder sometimes whether we are fashion conscious enough. Yeah, I know. Sounds real weird coming from me. But still, I wonder.

When me Pops took me to my first baseball game at old Tiger Stadium in Detroit, he wore a suit and tie. One of the times I noticed me Grandpa Joe wear a suit coat was when he did his weekly banking. That's right, he cleaned up and put on a coat and tie to go to the bank. Meanwhile, although I wore a suit and tie to the funerals of both my parents, I didn't to the viewings the night before. I had my reasons; with Mom, there was one particular pullover shirt of mine which she without fail would compliment when I had it on. So I wore that to the funeral home.

What do we wear suits for these days? You don't see them at Church, or, at least, I don't. In offices, yes, although that doesn't appear as universal as it once was. News shows, yes. But by and large, men don't wear suitcoats. 

I'm no longer sure that such relaxation is an improvement in style. After all, when Joe Cosgriff would dress up just to put money in his bank account, I do wonder if he had a better idea of proper dress than we seem to have these days.

Newark Technical Support

Yesterday morning, my computer screen began blinking in and out. It would stay on for about two seconds, then blink out, to reappear for a second or two before blinking again. Now, I'm a man who is rather complimented by a wink. Just not from my desktop screen. What to do, what to do. I know! I'll contact Newark, Ohio Technical Support.

Once the texts had begun, I filmed around a half minute of the monitor winking and sent it. The tech asked me to try hitting four buttons on the keyboard all at the same time. No result. So he said to try three different keys. 

The screen changed. I snapped a pic of that and texted it. Aha, we're getting somewhere, responded the tech. Click on blah-blah option.

A new screen came up. In fact, it was the start up screen. Enter your PIN, I was told, and see what happens. 

Viola! The computer, she worked, and right fine. I expressed profound gratitude.

Newark Technical Support. Five stars!

Cash Is Indeed King

I have been consciously going back to using cash, at least on smaller purchases. The libertarian in me has come to suspect the increasing use of credit and debit cards because, yes, the government could use that against me if I'm a bad boy. China is the obvious example. Yet Canada used it recently against COVID protesters, and Canada is supposed to believe in freedom.

But I digress. While I carry a debit and a credit card, cash is becoming king, and it should. I've stopped taking cards at the Shop because I see no reason to pay someone three percent or so for a service I simply don't need. Every single customer whom I've told bring me cash has brought it, and with no debate. I think more and more of them see the advantage too. 

I do see where, based on a supposed penny shortage, some businesses round change. The tendency is to round up, I suppose to avoid argument, yet many places do give me exactly what I'm owed. I don't argue when they round down; it's a nuisance, and perhaps wrong, I'll say, yet not worth the fight. But I have begun keeping track of whether I am ahead on such transactions, or the stores and shops I deal with.

In calendar 2026, I'm $1.64 in front. A pittance, but, well, my pittance. I wouldn't get it using a card.

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.

Fr. John

One of our pastors at old St. Dominic in Detroit was Fr. John. We liked him a lot, and he was comfortable enough to show up at our house unannounced for coffee and conversation. Those were good times, back in 1990-1991. The only bad thing was that he insisted on walking home, alone, after dark. He wouldn't take a ride; it was only four blocks to the rectory, he said, and he liked the quiet. He wouldn't even let me walk the dog along with him. I mean, I'm a lifelong Detroiter who genuinely feels comfortable around the neighborhood. But safety's safety.

So I did what my conscience compelled me to do. I would put the dog on the leash and shadow him. I'd give him about a block head start and then I'd follow him until I was sure he was safe at the Church.

Yet as it was, Fr. John liked to meander. He liked to take different routes home just to see different things. Then he would stop to smell the roses, so to speak. If something caught his eye, a building under renovation, a star or satellite in the sky, maybe even an actual flower, he'd stop to study it. And boy, could he study. Sometimes it was 45 minutes before I got back home.

One night, I was caught. I got a little too close and he spotted me, coming back to assuage my fears. "Don't worry about me, Marty. I know where I'm going if something happens."

"I don't doubt that," I replied. "I just don't want St. Peter's first question to me be, why'd you let that priest walk home alone at midnight?"

We had a laugh, but he finally indulged my fears and let me, and the dog, walk him home after visits.

Bill Cosgriff, Tax Expert

Me Grandpa Joe, he had that welding rental business. He also had rooming houses. You might imagine that required a lot of accounting. Joe, then, had contracted with an accounting firm.

Me Pops was always good with numbers, and he worked with Joe, his dad. One year as tax season approached, Joe asked Pops (my dad) about what he thought his taxes might be.

Dad proceeded to look over Joe's books, scribbling numbers on a paper as he went along. He eventually gave his dad a number of what he might expect to pay the IRS.

It turns out dad was within about ten bucks of the actual total. "Why am I paying Jack Donahue (his accountant) when you can do my taxes for me? Why don't you do them from here on out?" Joe asked his son.

Me Pops flatly refused. "No way. Maybe my numbers are good, but Donahue knows where to put those numbers on the right lines on all those tax forms." 

So Pops got out of being Joe's accountant. It was surely best for both of them. All three, counting Mr. Donahue.

Huh?

The things you see while driving around making drain snake deliveries...

Yesterday, west of Midland, Michigan, a pickup with New York plates passed me. Neither is unusual. I see New York license plates with some regularity, and my new old van is routinely passed. What caught my eye, though, was the vanity plate on that pickup. EVL DAD. Evil Dad?

I am curious what the story is behind that one.

The Harmless Catch-22

Dad jokes.

Don't buy flowers from monks. Only you can prevent florist friars.

I'm opening a car repair shop. I'll call it Auto Correct.

And then there's the ones which ensnare young kids in a vicious catch-22. My own Dad's favorite was to ask a kid, "If you have twenty-six sheep and one of them died, how many would have left? " If naive, unsuspecting child answered 25, he's say no, you'd have 19, insisting he said twenty sick sheep. If poor, unfortunate young 'un actually replied 19 me Pops would insist he said 26. It was a vicious, unwinnable cycle.

But no long term psychological damage was done. I don't think.

Doggone It

Is it a bad sign when Senior moments begin running together?

Yesterday, I made my way up to the old barn at around 9 in the morning. Almost as soon as I got to work, I realized that I left my cell phone on the dining room table. As tempting as it was to leave it, my conscience insisted I go get it. Doggone conscience.

Right around Noon I went home for lunch. The instant I walked in the door, I reached for my pocket to grab my phone. Of course, I had left it on a workbench. 'I won't be long', I told myself. Yet also, of course, within 90 seconds I was headed back. The most important call in the world was certain to come in if I did not.

I'd love say I didn't do that again. But we all know the truth, and we all know I couldn't leave it at the Shop all night. 

Doggone conscience. Hopefully today goes better.

Vote No On All Millages

I'll be voting today in the Michigan primaries. 

I don't know how I'll vote on everything but I do know how some of my ballots will go.

I will vote against every single millage, especially new ones but even renewals. Millages are taxes against property, and I believe that property taxes are as immoral as income taxes. The people, with the government as an intermediary, are saying, "Nice house you got there! Give us $4,000 a year or we'll take it away." That's the very definition of extortion. If it was the mob demanding protection money we'd have a fit. But, hey, democracy, which is really just tyranny of the majority quite frankly. That's why even in a republic as we have you need minority rights protected somehow. 

But, but, libraries! Police and fire protection! Schools! Can't you see how bad public schools are for the body politic (and their students) with their propaganda and lack of honest education? Time to defund them. Police and fire protection ought to come from the general budget, because they're a general interest. Paying them through property taxes simply lets government get fat while using the general fund for vote buying schemes. Libraries too, if you're going to have them at all, should be through the general fund. I am not convinced we should have them.

The fact is that governments at all levels tax us enough already. We have no direct recourse against it except denying millages. It's the best we can do as individuals to stop feeding the beast.

Well, that was more of a rant than I started out for it to be. 

Charles Martin Cosgriff, M.D.

Believe me, you do not want Marty as your kindly old MD. Even I will admit that. For starters, I doubt I'd be all that kindly. Then there's fact that I don't care for blood, which might just make being a doctor a tad difficult. But perhaps I could be mistaken for one.

I did actually play a doctor in the background of the movie Little Murder, which was filmed in my neighborhood back in 2009. I was in two blink and you miss them scenes but I was in there, lab coat and all. So there's that. I could believably be mistaken for a doctor. In fact I was once mistaken for one. Or, more precisely, the doctor was mistaken for me.

Me Uncle Frank, who lived up in Hessel in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula, had to have surgery. He told me that as he was coming out of it and still very groggy, a doctor came over to speak to him. He thought that the doctor was me. All the while he was answering the surgeon's questions Uncle Frank said he was thinking things like, "Marty's not a doctor," or "Marty's not here, he's in Detroit," and the like. A funny story, in a cutesy kind of way. I assured him it could not have been have been me, for the reasons he cited plus one other. "What's that?" Uncle Frank demanded to know.

"You survived the surgery," I replied with a laugh. 

You know what? When he told the story the next time he added that reason to his list. 

The Amish Store

A few miles north of Bellefontaine, Ohio, is a small store run by the Amish community. It sells Amish made goods as well as candies and herbs and a few other things. They have the best chocolate covered raisins I've ever had.

A few weeks ago I stopped in on my way back to Detroit from Electric Eel. I grabbed a couple things and went to the counter to pay. I could see many young women in a small room behind the counter, working hard at whatever they needed to get done. Although there was a ringer by the cash register and a sign to ring it for service, I didn't do that. I was in no hurry, and the staff was busy. They'd get to me soon enough.

A young Amish girl, maybe four years old and standing right behind the counter, had other ideas. She looked up at me and smiled. She clearly had an impish thought percolating in her mind. Then she boldly stepped up to the counter, smiled a bigger smile, and reached up for the ringer. Ding ding ding ding ding ding! She rang the bell several times in quick succession and with great glee, then jumped back out of the way.

A young woman turned around, obviously a bit irritated, and rushed to the register to take care of me. I looked at the child and winked. I know the cashier presumed it was me who had rung the bell so emphatically. But I wasn't about to throw an Amish toddler under the bus. Especially since she had so much fun ringing that bell.

If Need Be

At around Noon yesterday I sat along the concourse of Comerica Park waiting for the Detroit Tigers-Baltimore Orioles game. It was an awful 10-9 loss for the home team, one which makes me hate removing pitchers too quickly and the ghost runner in extra innings all the more. But enough of that rant, even if it needs to be said. I have a joke to tell this morning. A very bad one, but better than the game. Honest.

A few feet away from the picnic table where I ate a piece of pizza and drank a Diet Coke, there was, mounted on an iron beam, a defibrillator. They're rather common these days, and understandably so. Yet that one heralded across the top of the box, 'Emergency Defibrillator'. Does that mean it can only be used when the regular defibrillator doesn't work or is not available?

Look, I was up front that it was a bad joke. But it was better than the game, at least for us Tigers fans.

All in the Details

Writing can be hard work. For me, sharpening my crayons is a constant hassle.

But seriously, folks. In reading reviews of my books, I find, at times, good and interesting questions. One reader asked, in so many words, how plants could survive in the world of my book A Subtle Armageddon. Spoiler alert, if you have not read ASA: all insect and animal life has been eradicated.

Well, how does one answer that? It isn't something which had occurred to me during the writing process, honestly. But plants as we know them need bees and such for pollination. So how can I make it make sense that plant life was still around in my future world?

Or, must I? I think we may be dealing with two basic issues here. The first is whether an explanation is necessary. After all, most readers haven't seemed bothered by it. If a reader is lost enough in a story, and that's what I believe most writers want, then I'm not sure every objection is important. Must everything be explained, down to the last iota? It is a work of fiction, after all. Is it even possible to explain everything away?

Which leads to the second point. The society which brought about A Subtle Armageddon was clearly highly advanced, at least scientifically. What's to stop us from presuming they overcame that stumbling block? Perhaps they developed a way in which plants regenerate on their own. In short, why not allow the reader, if it even crosses his mind, to dismiss the objection on that basis? After all, it doesn't really matter to the point of the story. Well, that I can see, anyway. Yet maybe I'm prejudiced.

I'm just thinking out loud. But I am interested in your thoughts.

Matthew Thinks

 Matthew reviewed my book A Subtle Armageddon on Amazon. He said:

This book is one of those rare science fiction novels that stays with you long after you've finished reading. It combines imaginative world building with deep philosophical questions about humanity, technology, freedom, and what it truly means to be alive. The story unfolds at a steady pace while rewarding readers who enjoy thoughtful, idea driven science fiction rather than nonstop action. What impressed me most was how the book balances its big concepts with genuine emotion and a sense of wonder. It raises important questions without feeling preachy. Making it an enjoyable read as well as one that encourages reflection. This book is definitely worth your time if you're a fan of classic science fiction that explores the human condition.

Is Matthew right? Find out here.

Laying the money down

They're always in a hurry until it's time to lay the money down. That's an old saw of me Pops, and it holds true as much now as whenever he first said it. Yet it still amazes me that it happens, that people will hold off on paying for things which, theoretically at least, pay for their living, their food and trucks and houses and such.

For larger projects and orders, except from well established customers, we get significant down payments. Even then, with as much as half down, we'll have folks leave things hanging for weeks, or even months. Yet there are repairs which we simply do and trust that they guy will return. Generally that involves things which we can easily sell to someone else if it comes down to it.

A good example is repaired sectional drain cables. If a fella doesn't return after awhile we just sell them. I won't bore you with the details, but we can make it up to the original customer if it comes down to it. Why, I would even honor our oldest obligation on that count.

We have a man, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, whom we owe six cables from 1983. We called him several times back then until the old man decided it was no longer worth his trouble. Yet if he comes in today I will give him the cables he's owed. I will even sell them to him at the price we charged back then, nine bucks a cable (they're $35 each now) just for the novelty of it. And out of an odd respect for the chutzpah it would take to try and claim them 43 years later.

Hey, it may even make good PR, right?

Woodbridge Nature

Nature is resilient. It adapts. That's the main reason why environmental issues aren't at the forefront of my worries. Yes, we should be good stewards. But Nature rules its own sphere.

Over the years in Woodbridge, my local Detroit neighborhood, I've seen wildlife come back in abundance. I've observed pheasants, hawks, rabbit, beavers, and opossum. Feral cats are everywhere; there aren't near the rats there once were, and perhaps that's why. 

In the last year there have been two deer sighted, one right by the old barn. And this very day while on my morning constitutional, I saw a wild turkey. No, not an empty bottle of the famous rotgut. A wild turkey, with a baby in tow. 

Nature rebounds, it answers all challenges. My own Detroit environs prove it.

Donations with Extreme Prejudice

A few weeks ago at Mass, I helped with the offertory collection. In one pew sat a family with a small child. She was maybe three, and her mother had given her the money to put in the collection basket. She was encouraging her daughter to put the money in the basket, not unlike we did with our kids when they were very young. It's a common thing.

So as I arrived at their pew, the little girl looked up at me, took two or three steps towards the basket as I held it towards her and - wham - absolutely slammed dunked the money into it. Then she smiled at herself. Oh yeah, I did it, I helped. I'm the girl.

It just so happened we had a second collection. The same thing happened: I approached, she toddled over, and slammed that cash right into the basket. She made absolutely certain, left no doubts at all, that SHE made the donation. She was very happy and proud to have done her part.

You gotta love that moxie.

Silent Outtakes

We, me son Charlie and I, watched the German silent film Die Nibelungen yesterday. It was very good; I'm starting to really like silents. You have to invest more in them than those talkies so many people obsess about. Silent movies make you pay attention.

Still, it can be difficult for me not to think about jokes even while viewing an engrossing film. In a scene where the lead character brandished a sword I thought, what if he had dropped it? Would we have a silent film outtake for history? Would a dialogue card have appeared which said, "Crap!"

Perhaps a couple of actors fell into laughter during a shoot. We've seen that with more recent movies, where concentration is busted and there's moments of uncontrollable laughing. Would a card pop up saying, "Aha-hahahahaha!"

I'm just wondering.

Estimating Grandparents

I remember a Grandparent's Day once at my granddaughter's school. Well, there were several over the years, but today I'm thinking about one in particular.

It was a nice day. Among other activities we attended the school Mass and had lunch in the classroom. Yet what I remember most came from the priest's sermon. He told everyone that the grandparents' role in their grandchildren's lives was not to be underestimated. That's nice to hear.

But being a grandfather though, I naturally had to make a joke of that. During lunch I reminded my granddaughter of what Father said. Then I asked her, "Know what I take from his words?"

"No," she responded curiously.

"Don't underestimate your grandparents!" I said to her sternly, with a pointed finger.

She laughed. Can you believe that?

Saying So Long

I'm never sure that I should write the type of blog I'm about to author. They become about you, and I don't really want this to be about me. I think you'll understand.

A dear friend died yesterday. Forgive me if I stay cryptic and vague, but most of you wouldn't know him anyway, and as the family has made no announcements yet I feel it's a matter of their privacy that I not get too specific. 

Still, I owe the man. He was 10 or 11 years older than me, but we'd known each other more than fifty years. Over those years we've had many good conversations, and a lot of good natured joking and jiving went on between us. Yet what I was most grateful for was in how he kept in touch with me, at least once a week, every week for better than a year, after my Dad passed. Many, many of you did too, and believe me, those kindnesses will never be forgotten, will always be treasured. Yet right this minute his are on my mind.

He didn't have to make it a point to check in. He didn't have to offer such regular support. But he did, and still did at least with some regularity, ever since. 

His passing is a genuine shock. Godspeed, you old Lutheran. Trust me, he'll laugh at that quip.

It's so easy to fix a snake

 No, Mungo! Never kill a customer! -from Monty Python's Dirty Fork sketch

Those are certainly words to live by. I have never come close to killing a customer. At least, so far as the police know. But I have snapped at a couple of them.

Several years ago during a period when we were extremely busy and running about one week to ten days behind in repairs (not unlike now quite honestly) a guy walked into the old barn. He had a machine which wasn't running and wanted me to take a look at it. I said I would, but that if it required anything serious he'd have to leave it and I'd get to it as soon as I could.

I followed him out to his van and he produced a little General Sewerooter Junior which had wires hanging out of the motor in a terrible jumble. A real bird's nest, me Pops used to say. It would have taken an hour simply to sort everything out, to get all the wiring back in place so that I might then start diagnosing the real problem. On top of that, his cable was tangled inside the drum. I shook my head and said to the man, "You're going to have to leave that with me."

He began, "Well all you have to do is..."

I cut him off right there. "Then you do it," I replied, admittedly rather harshly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Then you do it," I repeated. "If it's all that simple, why are you bringing it to me? Why don't you have it done already?"

"You don't have to get that way, man," he protested.

In me best Grandpa Joe voice I half yelled back, "Yes! Yes I do! Everybody thinks their mess is so easy to fix after they messed it up worse and then expect a miracle from me! I'm not putting you in front of anybody else for this!"

The man left. I didn't kill him, but I haven't seen him since either.

Reality Bites

Is it just me, or is it true? Do most, or at least an awful lot of folks, take reality to be something far different from what reality actually is?

I'm not talking about the particular behaviors which seem to be in vogue these days. Similar things have likely happened all through history and we ought to be careful about giving them too much power over our thoughts and concerns. Perhaps what I'm thinking belongs in that category as well I suppose.

What worries me the most is that too many people seem to think of reality as gritty, gross, and crass. They see reality through a cynical lens, a view which quite naturally makes all things suspect. That's not exactly appealing.

I prefer the reality of Frank Capra. When at the penultimate moment of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington the Vice President recognizes Jimmy Stewart over Claude Rains during debate in the US Senate I want to jump up and scream 'Yes! That's what I'm talking about!' precisely because it's about the good guy, a really good guy, winning. When George Bailey is back at the bridge where he first met Clarence (in It's a Wonderful Life) begging for his life back and the snow starts falling again, I get chills. The good guy overcomes his cynicism and is rewarded. 

Yes, yes, yes. That may not be reality either. The good guys lose an awful lot, too often, really, in this world. I get that. But they do win sometimes. And if my choice is cynicism or inspiration, well, I'll take Capra's reality all day long.

Grant Smoked

Writing is more than basic grammar, no matter how important that may be. Style plays its part too. Then there's the mechanics of the story. There are certain things you want to establish for the sake of the plot. This includes the traits of the main characters. A writer wants you to get to know them, to understand their feelings, their limitations, the forces they may battle internally or externally. Sometimes you simply want a certain trait exposed, to give the reader an almost physical picture of the man, woman, child, or scene.

I just finished reading a trilogy by Newt Gingrich (yes, the former Congressman, but how many other Newts do you know?) and William Forstchen. They wrote an alternate history of our Civil War. Although I wasn't bowled over, it's not a terrible read. It had quite a few grammar issues which, you would think, a book at that level would not have. That's a distraction. Bad grammar only works situationally. 

But I digress. What bugged me more than the lack of proper Oxford commas were two almost innocuous things. One was the incessant presentation of coffee. Now, I love my cup of joe. Having characters drink coffee will certainly help me relate to them, and in a positive way. Yet every single time more than two people got together Newt and William would make it a point to say, in very certain and repetitive terms, that so and so gave someone coffee. So and so served coffee, and so and so took it and blew across the rim of the cup to cool it before sipping. It wasn't long before I was completely exasperated. We, the readers, understand. Coffee is served at meetings, even councils of war. Can't we safely presume that by the third gathering? Does it really need to be pointed out every damn time someone enters Bobbie Lee's tent?

Then there was General Grant. He smoked cigars, pretty much one after another. I know that because I've studied history, but now because every single time someone approached him Newt and William made it a point to say, "The General struck a match on the table and puffed a cigar to life."

"The General struck a match against his boot and brought his cigar to life."

"Grant dropped his cigar butt to the ground and ground it out with his heel. Then he struck a match against his leather gloves and brought another cigar to life." It was like, we are going to establish the hell out the fact that Grant smoked.

By halfway through the trilogy I was almost screaming, "I GET IT. Grant chain smoked. Shut up about that now! In the name of all that's good and holy, just let us presume Grant was smoking a cigar whenever he appeared. It's very, very clear, Newt! Insanely, crystally clear in fact.

I haven't even gotten into how verbose Newt and William were. But, the immediate writing lesson. Writing is more than grammar, and you only to need to establish something once. You weren't writing a Dick and Jane book, Mr. Gingrich.

Michael's Story (Shameless Plug)

An Amazon reader had this to say about my book Michael's Story: 

A thrilling dystopian ride with an ending you won't see coming! The story follows Michael, who is taken into a mysterious community divided into factions: the Red, the Purple, and the Green. When the community discovers his knack for numbers, they assign him to keep records and analyze statistics. While Dr. Green helps him acclimate to his new life, the Judge works behind the scenes to secure him a better position. However, Michael soon discovers a dark secret—he was actually part of a sinister experiment until he rebelled. With the help of his friend Nathaniel, Michael finds a safe haven outside the community's walls. But when they are discovered, the community destroys his sanctuary and takes his friend with it. Fueled by grief, Michael decides to fight back and orchestrates a war. It is a war that history notes was not won. You will have to read this book to discover exactly how the war was lost and what ultimately happens to Michael. It features an ending that completely subverts expectations!

Thanks, dear reader! To see if their review is accurate, you can look here and here.

O'Rourke and Dentistry

P. J. O'Rourke was one of my favorite pundits. His missive All the Trouble in the World still leaves me roaring with laughter, even on the fifth read. 

He remarked once that for all the people who wished they had lived at earlier times in our history, he had one word: dentistry. Before modern dental practices, dentistry was painful. Oh, it may not be a walk in the until yet. But at least there are anesthetics and pain killers.

I think he's onto something.

Yellow Sky

We in Michigan and several northern tier states are experiencing yellow skies and poor air quality today, due to wildfires in Canada. It also smells as though everybody has a fire pit going. Not very pleasant.

I have no immediate idea what has caused these wildfires, so I should be careful about assessing blame. Yet neither should the global warming enthusiasts be quick to raise their banner.

Government policy can and has led to wildfires. For environmental reasons, in many western states electric companies aren't allowed to clear brush from the base of power line towers. That effectively allows kindling to develop. Add a bolt of lightning or a transmitter shorting out and sending sparks earthward...and you get a wildfire. A decidedly preventable one. 

I haven't even gotten to the old saw that sometimes things just happen. My overriding point is merely that few if any of us really know what causes problems on a case by case basis. So maybe we should treat them case by case unless and until an actual cause becomes demonstrable. 

In a world which thrives on hype I say, yeah. That'll happen.

Not What I Meant

Where's spell check and grammar check when you need it?

I've took to the habit of sending myself texts when I want to remember something. Then, if I don't forget, I can see them later to remind me of whatever is in question.

Yesterday I took a call from a customer, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who wanted what's called a drop head fitting for his snake cable. I dutifully texted myself that information and went about my business.

This morning I checked my texts. Rather than one saying, Cloyce drop head, I had sent myself the message, Cloyce drop dead.

I mean, we've had our issues, but nothing that serious...

Red Giants

Science can be interesting. But it can scare you too.

I read an article yesterday which said that our Sun will become a red giant star which will consume the Earth as it expands. I thought it said this would be in five million years.

Then I double checked, and it turns out we have five billions years. Boy, did I breath a sigh of relief.

Yeah, slow news day, Ron.

Cooling Agent

Sometimes at the Shop we have to heat things. Maybe two parts won't come apart, maybe a bolt won't loosen; you get the idea. Consequently we keep a large bucket of water near our work bench in case we need to cool hot metal. You know, for safety's sake. Because we Cosgriffs are all about safety.

So one day Pops was heating something or other while fixing a machine for a customer; I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. When Dad finished he dropped the red hot whatever into the bucket of water. Cloyce asked, "Is that water, Cosgriff?"

With a twinkle in his eye Pops answered, "No. It's a special chemical compound called H2O".

"Oh," Cloyce responded with about half a laugh.

A few months later Cloyce was back, this time with a friend. Pops was heating something up again, and dropped the part in the water as he finished. Cloyce said to his buddy, "I bet you think that's water, don't you?"

"Uhh, yeah," the guy answered uncertainly.

"Nope. That's a special chemical compound called H2O," Cloyce responded. Dad said you tell that Cloyce was proud of that faux scientific factoid because he clearly did not realize that H2O was water.

"Really?" the man in turn responded, giving a curious eye towards Pops, who simply but mildly shrugged his shoulders. The man himself clearly knew H2O was water, but left it at that.

I believe Dad was happy that he did. After all, he was only cracking a joke however many months ago. He was not out to embarrass old Cloyce. 

Say Cheese

Me Pops had a good friend who hailed from Alabama, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who asked Dad for help driving his family down for a visit one summer. As this was in the days before the Interstate Highway system, it helped on long trips to have two drivers alternate in order to keep moving.

They left on a Friday a bit before Noon. I should add that this also was in the days where Catholics couldn't eat meat on any Friday of the year. Dad was a serious Catholic, even at 20 years old.

Anyway, they made great time, and found themselves approaching an all night diner well after dark. Cloyce gave Mrs. Cloyce some money and told her to buy him, her, and their kids some hamburgers. "But don't get Bill nothing with meat, he can't eat it today," were his final instructions.

Mrs. Cloyce returned a few minutes later with hamburgers. And a cheeseburger for me Pops.

When she realized the brain cramp Mrs. Cloyce apologized profusely. "Don't worry," Dad assured her, "It's about 11:30. Leave it on the dash and I can eat it in a half hour."

No harm, no foul, right?

Let's Get Ready to Rumble

We're all familiar, all too familiar, I might add, with road construction and repair. When those signs appear - left lane closed, two miles and what have you - our hearts sink.

Yet I get it. They want to warn you. They want to give you a heads up. Fair enough.

Then they, that famous they, decided it wasn't enough. Someone developed rumble strips, rubber lines glued to the roadbed to make your car, well, rumble as it sped along. They are placed increasingly closer together as work approaches, to remind you that you need to be considerate, slow down, and change lanes. All right, I get that too.

But now, to go along with the construction advisories and rumble strips, there's a new sign.

The other day as I came upon road work, I was informed that there were rumble strips ahead. So I was being warned of the upcoming warning.

It's actually kind of laughable. Still, things may be getting out of hand.

Bean with Bacon

They say you can't go home again, and there's a great truth to that. But you can get a taste of the old homestead.

Campbell's Bean with Bacon soup. I hadn't had it in years. Of course, I haven't actually been looking. It had fell off my radar. Then I noticed a few cans of it in a Dollar General, and was so tickled that I bought four.

I've already ate two. Just like I used to do as a kid when Mom would serve it up for lunch, I made a big bowl and absolutely inundated it with saltines. That first taste sure brought back memories. It actually seemed as though I were sitting in the kitchen as a boy, Dad at the head of the table, back to the cabinets, Mom to his right, and all us siblings piled around wherever we'd fit.

I can't eat two bowls in one sitting as I could then. Well, I could, but it's not a good idea. It probably wasn't then, either. Yet, well, it tasted like home.

Marty and the Art World

It is said that art is to the artist, by which is meant that art is whatever the artist says it is. I disagree.

I have a very simple yet realistic definition of what makes something art: if I can do it, it ain't art. I'll give you an example: Orange Brown . I can do that. Therefore, it's not art. Yet it actually belongs to the Detroit Institute of Arts, potentially (I haven't looked it up) on the taxpayer's dime.

What is art, then? The Mona Lisa. The ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Stuart's portrait of Washington which is replicated on the dollar bill. Things like that. Fuzzy orange brown squares and rectangles? I'm going to argue no.

In short, art isn't necessarily what the self proclaimed artist or supposed art experts say it is. The kind of standard applies across the board too. If you think Zinn's Bad History is good history simply because Howard Zinn purports to be an historian, then you ought to rethink the subject. You should certainly rethink Zinn.

Art is what art is, according to rational standards of beauty, talent, and whatever other reasonable standards apply to analyzing art, exactly as history is what it is according to rational standards of history no matter what any given person, even an historian, might say it is. Look beyond the experts, question them, challenge them. If they can't give you good answers, doubt them. Never let them rest on their own word.

Right Turns (Not Political)

I do love Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula. But there are things about it which take adjustment, such as turn signals. You can trust them.

In Detroit, a great big nope goes out to that. A driver may have a signal engaged but it means diddly squat. Maybe they're turning, maybe not, and there's no sense trying to determine which it is. From what I've seen of other major towns, Indianapolis, Columbus, New York City, Dryden (especially Dryden) you simply cannot believe them. The driver is going to do whatever they please. A turn signal if anything means, I haven't decided yet, but you better not cross me.

Yet in the UP, they cast disparaging looks at you when you don't turn right in front of them when their right signal is clearly flashing as you wait to turn yourself. I had one guy noticeably staring me down when I failed to do that. You should have went, his expression said clearly. You must have seen my flasher.

Well, yeah, I did. But from where I live that lacks meaning. It takes me awhile to believe people are actually going to do what their actions indicate. Sorry, UP.

Ten Steps to Huh?

The Smithsonian Channel (everybody has a channel these days) offers some interesting programs. The issues they cover include history, archaeology, and current events. They carry a very interesting British show called Inside the Factory about how foods are made. But there is one program which gets that vein of sophomoric humor in me going. It's called Ten Steps To Disaster.

I'm not sure that's a good idea. I mean, instructing us on how to create disaster? Humanity seems pretty good at that already.

I know that's not what it's about. It's about ten steps that have led to actual disasters, analyzing real historical events. But where's the humor in that?

Cool Ghoul Cloyce

As he sat on the front porch with a cup of coffee one warm summer morning me Pops heard an old friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, coming down the street. "George!" Cloyce was yelling. "Here George! Come here, George!"

Eventually he came into sight. "What's going on, Cloyce?" Pops asked as his friend.

"The dog ran off," his buddy explained. "I'm trying to find him."

"Well, good luck," Dad offered. Then he asked what you would think an obvious question. "The dog's name is George?"

Cloyce bristled just a bit. "Nah, the kids named him Cool Ghoul."  He gave a quick, dismissive wave to me Pops unspoken question, then continued, "But I ain't going around the neighborhood yelling, Cool Ghoul! Here Cool Ghoul!" 

Pops laughed. Eventually Cloyce found George. Er, Cool Ghoul.

July 5th

Well, the second half of the year begins. I don't know about you, but for me the first half of the year builds towards Independence Day while the second part rises until Christmas. It's not the worst way to approach time. 

I don't know how many days until Christmas; I'm not into it that much. It's simply the macro way I see the year. Works for me.

July 4, 2026

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.

Oil's Well That Ends Well

I had a moment of panic yesterday morning. As I went to check the fluids in my new old van, I discovered that the oil cap was gone. There was a one-inch hole in the valve cover where it should have been.

I have no idea what happened exactly. Within reason, I neglected to put it back on the last time I checked the oil. Luckily, I was only about a quart and a half down, and the local auto parts had a new cap for fifteen bucks. So I made sure all the other fluids were good, and you better believe I made certain that every cap was on tight. You know what I did next?

Drove 320 miles to Hessel, in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula.

But Marty, shouldn't you have driven around town for a few days to make sure everything was okay?

Aw hell, as me Grandpa Joe would have said. I was otherwise set to go, and it had been driving just fine. What's to wait for?

Indeed. 

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.

Keeping Time

Yesterday I railed against penalty kicks in soccer, and I suppose against the game in general. Yes, I'm that typical American who thinks it's boring, and not the least because it is. But there are things about soccer I like.

You do have to be in excellent shape to play. It can, too, be athletic. Bicycle kick passes and goals are impressive. Soccer is easy and inexpensive, which is great for kids and weekend athletes. 

But what I like most about it is that the referee and the referee only controls the clock. Teams can't simply call time out when game management gets away from them, or merely to make the other squad wait (I'm looking at you, American football). No one with a direct interest in the outcome of a game should control something as integral to fair play as the time. Too many games are, I will argue, won artificially by simply stopping play because it benefits one side to do it. That's aimed at you again, American football.

So yes, soccer has its good points. Particularly that last one.