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. 

A Kick in the Net

I actually watched the bulk of the Germany-Paraguay World Cup match yesterday. All right, I didn't exactly watch. I flipped between the game and a Yogi Bear cartoon. Yogi might be predictable, but at least he and Boo Boo did more than kick a ball back and forth for two hours. That's about the extent of what I saw Germany and Paraguay do.

Then, those two squads had to resort to what are called penalty kicks to determine a winner. That's truly worse than the ghost runner on second in baseball extra innings. 

Individual kickers go against a goalie one on one. If the goalie guesses right, no goal. If not, goal. The team with the most, ugh, goals wins.

Really, soccer? I get that you need a winner. But penalty kicks? Remove the goalies in extra time. Take 3 or 4 players from each side off the field. Eliminate offsides. Widen and heighten the net. Something. Almost anything would be better than what you have. Shootouts are simply an insult to the integrity of the game. It's why I can't take you too seriously.

In Regard to Warm

One thing I've noticed as my books gain traction are the number of emails I now receive telling me how their tried and true method of getting me noticed will make me a writing star. Of course, they want money to do that. This isn't to dismiss all of them. But it dismisses most.

A common sign off, after telling me how great my books are and how their phenomenal ideas will enhance my stature, is, I've noticed, 'Warm regards' followed by a name. Where you or I might sign off 'sincerely' or the like, the ones who want cash send me warm regards.

No one whom I've ever come across in real life has said that, much less ended a letter with it. It even sounds clunky: what the hell is a warm regard anyway? Personally, I believe that it's an AI attempt at sounding as though they really mean they want the best for me, but in a rather dull manner which won't offend any denomination.

Ah well.

Warm regards,

Marty 

The Bird Game

I don't know how many Tiger fans remember this date, although I'm sure many do: June 28, 1976. Fifty years ago today. I call it the Bird game: it was the game which shot Mark Fidrych to national fame. I watched it as a sixteen year old, and it is (outside of World Series wins, and then only arguably) my favorite Tigers' game.

Rookie Mark Fidrych, nicknamed the Bird, threw a complete game 5-1 victory over the New York Yankees in a nationally televised Monday night contest. My son found a copy of the event on a VHS tape at a rummage sale and picked it up. The tape was labeled simply, The Fidrych Game. We watched it the day before Memorial Day. Yes, I still have a tape player hooked up to my TV.

Fidrych was a character. He groomed the pitchers's mound, he talked to himself, he thanked the players behind him after good plays. He was certainly unique.

I was struck by how quickly the game was played: I counted typically only 8 - 9 seconds between pitches. That's how you're supposed to play: keep it moving. But far more than that was watching the simple, childlike excitement of the Bird as he pitched. He put on no airs, there was no bravado. He was not grandstanding. He was just playing baseball. And having fun at it.

Then the cheers after the last out were amazing. Tiger Stadium rocked with the chant, "We want Bird! We want Bird!" until he came out for the curtain call. The broad smile, the happiness on his face; he was just so sincere. You don't see that on athletes, and that's a shame. Games should be fun more than anything else, even, perhaps especially, at that level.

The chills still ran down down my spine years later, watching that game with my son. Detroit Tigers fans who never saw the Bird missed something that can't be found even on World Series championship teams. They missed the most deserving player ever to don the Old English D. He may even be the most deserving player ever to take the field in a Major League Baseball game. Fidrych loved the game, and the fans loved him for it.

Blatant Industrial Espionage

This morning I received a call from a customer, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, where I'm not sure what he hoped to accomplish but he wasn't getting any cooperation from me regardless.

He needed some cables repaired and I told him to bring them in Monday or Tuesday but expect a two week return time because we're busy. "Why don't you teach me how to do repairs, Cosgriff? I might could help you out."

"I'm don't know that I can do that, Cloyce. I'd have to stay right with you at first and it would really just slow me down." Let me establish, quite bluntly, you don't want Cloyce fixing your stuff. Trust me.

"Well let me ask you this: what does it cost you to fix a cable? What's your actual cost?" 

I have to admit that I was a bit taken aback by such a question. It's, oh, what would you call it, impertinent, maybe? Still, it was Cloyce, something of a dingbat, and I held my temper. My response was rather pointed nonetheless. "I'm afraid that's privileged information, Cloyce."

He responded indignantly, "Man, you just don't want any competition do you, Cosgriff?"

Well, I won't lie. I don't really want competition, no. But I would accept it if it arose naturally because that's part of the working world. And it occurs to me this second that Cloyce competition might actually help me in the long run, once folks see what kind of work he does. Still, I ain't helping anyone learn to compete with me, and I'm especially not telling him my margins. What did he expect?

We'll see if he brings his cables by.

Not My Native Tongue

Late yesterday as I was getting off work, my next door neighbor and her young daughter were sitting on their porch. I waved and said, "Hi!"

"Hi!" the little girl responded. Then she, very excited, launched into full on Pebbles Flintstone. "Bada dadi dodi gadda gidda da nehhi blochta hehaw!" I could actually feel the confused expression growing on my face as she talked. 

Her mother then explained, "She said she got a pedal bike at her fourth birthday party and she's learning to ride it."

I looked back at the daughter. "Mommy and Daddy are teaching you to ride a bike?"

She began another run on sentence. "Yes! Haha bingo blah suppri didi haha no a aat ya ya!"

Mom said, "Yes they are, and it's fun, and one day I'll teach my baby sister to ride hers!"

"Good for you!" I told the girl.

I'm glad she's so happy, but I was most grateful for the translator. It's been decades since I had to speak toddler.

Buffaloed

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

Buffalo nickels were minted between 1913 and 1938. This means that mine is between 88 and 113 years old. I can't say for sure, because it's so worn from use that the date has rubbed off. There's a lot of wear around the edge of the coin too.

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

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

The Flutter of the Wings

I am currently reading Ronald Reagan's autobiography, An American Life. I've read a lot about the former President. I would guess about a dozen books so far, but never in (essentially) his own words until now. You would think a guy could only read so much about a figure or event without it all becoming a rehash, but different perspectives do offer deeper understandings, and I do admire the man. I'm truly enjoying the book.

Early on Reagan talks frankly about his father, Jack Reagan's, alcoholism and the troubles it caused his family. Yet the elder Reagan was finally able to conquer it late in life. A few years before his death he was able to quit cold turkey, returning to Church in the process. President Reagan was, with admiration for his father, one day relating the story to fellow actor Jimmy Cagney. Cagney thoughtfully responded, "He heard the flutter of the wings."

He heard the flutter of the wings. Damn but if that don't bring a lump to my throat.

People is People

I don't always know what to think of people. Okay, I typically know what to think of people. But as I'm trying to keep this blog G rated, or no worse than PG, I'll let that thought hang.

A man came into the old barn yesterday to buy a machine. I got it out, plugged it up, hit the on/off switch, and it ran. I let off the switch, put the unit into reverse, and hit the button again to show that it worked in both directions. You know, standard salesman procedure.

"Let me have that," he says, as he literally muscles me out of the way and tries the machine in forward and then reverse. All the while I stood and stared at him thinking, 'I just did that. Right in front of you. Why are you double checking me?'

Of course, maybe he knows people too.

Drain Snake Methodology

The other day I found myself talking to myself while I installed a new reverse switch on an Electric Eel Model C (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs). Only thing was, the customer was standing right by me as I worked. Only other thing was, I didn't care.

At one time I would have been embarrassed by that. Yet this time around I even remarked to the guy, "A fella's getting pretty comfortable with who he is and what he's doing when he can carry on a conversation with himself and another man standing there."

He just smiled and replied, "I ain't sayin' nuthin, Cosgriff. I don't want to interfere with your method."

Thank you sir. That's what we'll call it: my method. It sounds a far sight better than going crazy.

Curling For Spuds

For some odd reason, this morning I found myself thinking about a particular curling bonspiel I participated in about 30 years ago. It did not go well.

I was on one of two teams from the Detroit Curling Club, and we had driven up to Forest, Ontario for a tournament. There were eight teams in each flight. And as I said, it did not go well. We finished seventh and eighth in our group.

But in the curling world, no one goes home without something. As a food chain was the sponsor of this particular spiel, most curlers won meat entrees. We won ten pounds of potatoes. Each. At four players per team times two teams, that's a lot of taters. And we had to cross the border with them.

On the way home, we pulled up to the gate at the US side and were asked for our IDs (we were travelling together in one big van). The border agent asked the driver, whom I'll call Cloyce just to give him a name, "Purpose of your trip to Canada?"

"A curling bonspiel," Cloyce responded simply.

"Anything to declare?" the guard queried.

Cloyce replied honestly, "Eighty pounds of potatoes."

Without missing a beat the man in the booth said with a smile, "You were in the losers bracket then?"

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Can we take our spuds and go home now?

Unnerved

My Shop is right by the corner of Rosa Parks Boulevard and West Warren in Detroit. There was one bad accident at it yesterday, I tell you what.

I didn't see it but I heard the braking and the impact from inside the old barn. The sounds alone told me it was bad. A Chrysler 300 was speeding and struck a Jeep, sending it into a telephone pole so hard it broke off the pole about three feet above its base, leaving the rest hanging over the intersection held up by the phone wires. This was no old pole either: it was only recently put up and was still green from the waterproofing applied to it. I was told by an eyewitness that the two young men driving the Chrysler jumped out and ran off, leaving that car blocking Warren. Clearly they were fleeing something.

The elderly gentleman driving the Jeep was badly shaken up, but thankfully not hurt. He was walking around and talking to the police almost immediately, and the EMS techs seemed to think he was fine. His Jeep was hit so hard that it broke off the passenger's rear tire when the vehicle hit the curb: it had spun off the telephone pole and struck the curb hard enough to do that. The tire was laying flat on the sidewalk supporting that side of the Jeep.

I don't mind saying that I was a bit unnerved. Not only because of the sound and the fury, but in thinking about how often myself, family members and friends have driven through that intersection. Life is scary sometimes, you know?

Marty on Humor

I like humor. Why, you might even say that I enjoy jocularity. But what's the best type humor?

No red blooded American male will ever say that he doesn't like the slapstick of the Three Stooges. Not. One. But the slapstick towards the end of Home Alone (the first one) is about the most inspired I've ever seen.

I like farce, and both overstated and understated jokes. One of my favorite lines is still, "Wait a minute, Doc. You're telling me you made a time machine...out of a DeLorean?" from Back to the Future. Silly humor can be fun if well done and without self-conscience. I think of the Canadians Wayne and Shuster in that sense. Loved their shtick. Did you know that they were Ed Sullivan's guests more often than any other performers? It's true.

Bob Newhart gets my vote for great understated humor. His stuttering and stammering are priceless. For farcical, outlandish humor it's either Monty Python's Flying Circus or the Marx Brothers. I give Python points for the often inspired cleverness of their insanity (Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!), but the Marx Brothers get the nod on comic timing. Even though it's been done a million, jillion times, you have to see Harpo and Groucho doing the mirror gag in Duck Soup. I still laugh out loud at it. Hell, I'm laughing out loud thinking about it.

Then there's unintended humor. Look up The Room or At Long Last Love for a taste of that. Sometimes people are so serious that it becomes funny. As the then movie critic Michael Medved said, "You haven't lived until you've seen the powder room scene in At Long Last Love." He's right. It's the pinnacle of unintended humor.

Yes, I enjoy jocularity. How about you?

Marty the Ghost Hunter

A storm with high winds knocked out the power awhile back. That was frustrating on several counts, not the least of which was that it reminded one of how much he relies on electricity.

No power? Well, let me check on the status of repairs on the Internet...except with the power out, there's no Internet.

Well, then, I'll watch T...V...

All right, I'll nuke a quick bite of something. Oh, yeah. No electric, no microwave. And you want to leave the fridge and freezer closed anyway.

Okay, I'll read then. Click, click, click on the light switch before remembering, stupidly, no power, no lights.

So you just lay in bed. Of course, you might as well silver lining the outage, right? So I became a ghost hunter.

Whenever I did venture through the house, I used my cell phone to illuminate where I walked. Not the flashlight setting, because that would use too much battery power. I simply flipped on the screen light, which gave just enough glow to light my way.

It also gave the hallways, stairs, and rooms that soft gray green light which ghost hunting shows seem to have patented. Then my mind saw all the movement which managed to escape into the shadows right before I could really see it. I could the feel the cold air presence of the poor souls trapped, doomed to eternal, earthly dwelling. Near whispers emanated from all around me.

Of course I never actually found ghosts. And a good for them, too, because I'd have given them what for if I had.

Shave like Marty does

I saw it on a shelf in a closet as we went through the house we had just bought. It was a boar's hair shaving brush with a orange brown handle and hair which had a black stripe near the tips. At that very moment I knew we'd be good friends. But I closed the door and left it to sit that day.

A few years later I was in a drug store and stumbled upon some cakes of shaving soap. I remembered that mug brush, bought two of those soaps, and came home. My wife gave me a coffee cup with a broken handle, of which the cakes fit into perfectly. From that day on I was fully old school. I have shaved with a mug and brush since.

I think I get a closer shave that way. My face feels better too. Wally, my old barber, said it was because of the oils in the shaving soap. I believe him; that's how he shaved customers. I'm at the point now that shaving with cream makes me feel like I just had a pie smacked onto my face. That might not be so bad if I were Soupy Sales, but I'm not. Even when I travel I just use soap for shaving.

We had a great relationship, that brush and I. Then the hairs popped out of the handle one day awhile back. I was beside myself wondering what to do. I didn't want to buy another brush: we had become too close, me and the old one. But fortunately the hairs came out in one big clump (I suppose I should have expected that they'd all be glued together at their base) and my wife had some waterproof glue which she used to re-attach the bristles to the handle.

Now all is well. I still have my old friend, and I still have the best kind of close shaves.

Pretend you're right here!

Me Grandpa Joe had a way about throwing himself into his work. Sometimes he literally threw himself into it. Or among it, between it; I'm not exactly sure how to describe what I'm about to describe.

I remember a day when I was just 16 and he decided I needed to learn how to back up a trailer. That was fair enough so far as it went. As I worked with him delivering welding equipment and we often delivered smaller machines with a two-wheeled trailer, it was a good idea. Yet his teaching methods left a few things to be desired.

Quiet and tact come immediately to mind. I love that old man and I miss him every day, but he truly subscribed to the concept that the louder he was the better you'd remember and the quicker you'd learn. Higher decibels equaled greater understanding.

The loudness of his screaming instructions did not seem to help me initially. Neither did his insistence on visual examples: I cannot tell you how many times he would jump right in between car and trailer as I vainly tried backing the trailer into place, each time yelling, "Pretend you're right here! Right here!" But you're right there Joe! Right where you're telling me to be!

As I recall, me Pops returned from wherever he was at that point and calmly took over. I soon mastered it, and I do mean mastered it. I could back up that old trailer perfectly into a space with four inches of clearance to each side. And I do wonder if maybe, just maybe, Joe's intensity actually helped.

I do know me Pops calm certainly didn't hurt.

Encino Ike

I had not seen a first run movie in a theater in I didn't know how long. So yesterday, rather than playing catch up at the old barn as I originally intended (honest) I played hooky. I caught an early show at a local movie house and watched Pressure. It's centered on the D-Day Invasion. 

As many of you may already know, D-Day was supposed to be June 5, 1944. Yet the weather wouldn't co-operate (hence the movie title Pressure, a play on barometric pressure and the press to invade France), so the Allies had to wait a day to launch the attack. Although all of the actors were great, I was mostly interested to see Brendan Fraser as General Dwight Eisenhower.

In the 1990s, Fraser played a series of fish out of water roles, and did them quite well, I thought. He was George of the Jungle and Dudley Do-Right in live action remakes of old cartoons, for example. But he started out in Encino Man, a comedy centered on a cave man melted out of an ice tomb who had to learn about the modern world. Not a bad movie, yet it wasn't shortchanged at Oscar time either.

I wanted to see Pressure both as a history wonk but also to see how a cave man might play Ike. And I think he did well, even though I had a little trouble separating the young newcomer I remembered from thirty plus years ago playing a middle aged American military leader. But time does pass, and it's called acting for a reason, isn't it?

Anyway, it's a worthwhile film, I think.

Not Hot

Me Grandpa Joe had a good work ethic and a good moral code. He also liked deals on tools, but they had to be on the level.

One day a guy came by the Shop, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who was known to be shady. He was trying to sell Joe an acetylene torch. Grandpa was skeptical.

Sensing the dilemma, Cloyce sought to reassure me Grandpa. "It ain't hot here, Joe, I stole it in Baltimore!"

Joe didn't buy it. I suspect he invited Cloyce off the property in his own genteel manner.

The Oreo Magnification Hypothesis

Oh, a kid'll eat the middle of an Oreo first. Or will he, if the flavor is waffles and syrup?

Nothing appears sacred anymore. When the most popular cookie in the world feels that it has to try unusual things in order to appeal to the market, as it has recently with waffles and syrup (as well as myriad other flavors), it is easy to wonder just what's going on around here. Sure, there's no evil in trying new tastes per se, and if that's what folks want, well, so be it. After all, waffles and syrup do seem popular with breakfast.

But why do we see all this, I don't know, innovation seems an overwrought term to use. There are lots of tasty treats out there, and sugary ones are prominent. Yet waffles and syrup in cookies? Especially beloved ones such as good old Oreos? The whole idea simply strikes me as bizarre. If you want waffles and syrup, just go get them.

One easy explanation is that the makers of the famous treat, Nabisco, are merely responding to market forces. There's nothing wrong with that, again adding the caveat per se. Markets tend to make things better indeed by offering choices and making improvements on various levels and in various ways which are sometimes heretofore unimaginable. Having said that, I cannot ignore the implications of changing things simply to change them. If the markets are doing nothing more than reflecting such, what does that say about us?

What are we looking for, that we can't be satisfied with good old Oreo cookies? Why ought things change merely to change, merely to be different? To display our individuality? Surely, though, when we have to do things differently solely to display our independence we are in fact the most dependent of creatures. We have to watch society for what it likes and then act differently. At that point we're merely being contrary, if not obstinate and contradictory. Our personalities and outlooks, if dependent on change (which is after all merely doing things differently today than yesterday) are actually rather shallow.

Yes, yes, yes, I realize the hyperbole in what I've just asserted. I know, I've already said, that there's nothing wrong with experimenting with new cookie flavors let alone habits of fashion per se (yes, I must again add that dreaded as such). I'll even readily concede that the flavor of an Oreo isn't substantial in any useful philosophic sense. And I certainly do not want to be the reactionary conservative who opposes simply to oppose, who sees every change as dangerous if not sinful. Those reactionaries can be as wrong in resisting change as the revolutionaries who want to alter everything. I simply want people to understand that what was once accepted en masse, particularly the tried and true, can continue to be accepted without surrendering any valuable individuality on our parts. I want folks to accept the converse of eternal change: a single, basic, underlying outlook which holds all our choices together. That means if you must change what are mere habits, simple personal proclivities, merely to assert your person, you aren't particularly individual at all. You may be becoming something worse.

Buc-ee's

Well, I did a thing. Yesterday morning after leaving a customer pickup call I stopped at the Buc-ee's in Huber Heights, Ohio. I've heard a lot about them, so, why not?

It was impressive but not life changing. Nowhere near, in fact. I had half expected that, from what I've heard of folks losing their minds over Buc-ee's. Indeed I've read that travelers in the U.S. for the World Cup soccer tournament are making special trips to see the combination gas station/stores. 

Really? I mean, it was cool, and it's hard not be impressed with their selection of food and snacks. But to make an excursion out of it strikes me as absurd. To be blunt, how much choice do you need that you elect to go out of your way for it?

Still, the food and drink choices were astounding in variety, although glaringly noticeable was the lack of choice in coffee. I thought the hot food on the expensive side, and as there was no seating area I declined to try any, satisfied with a later sit down breakfast at good old Cracker Barrel. 

If you want Buc-ee's souvenirs and apparel, you'll certainly get that. Yet the most outstanding thing I found were the gas prices. At $3.39 a gallon, it was the best I've seen lately. 

So I'll keep Buc-ee's mind, and I certainly won't turn my nose up at it. But it's overblown. At the end of the day, it's just a fancy gas station/department store.

ASA Interview

Well, look who was interviewed by The Digital Journal, an online news source. Me!

Here's the link: Faith Through Allegory: Charles Martin Cosgriff on Exploring Humanity’s Deepest Questions

It's a bit potboiler, but hey, it's a step forward for my books. Here's hoping!

Duking It Out

Ever since I found Duke's Mayonnaise is available locally I have been using it on nearly all my foods.

Ham and cheese sandwich? Duke's!

Turkey and cheese sandwich? Duke's!

Roast beef sandwich? Duke's!

Corned beef and Swiss sandwich? Duke's!

Tuna sandwich? Duke's!

What do you use with fried fish instead of tartar sauce? Duke's!

You need a dip for potato wedges? Duke's!

Out of milk for your breakfast cereal? Duke's!

Okay, maybe not that last thing. But you get the idea. I'm Duking it out! I bought two more jars already. It's. That. Good

Anticipation

One of my favorite things about baseball is that you can savor moments, at least more so than in many sports. In hockey, and I do like hockey, goals seem to come up suddenly, indeed almost unexpectedly. Blink and you miss. But baseball? The moments allow a certain enjoyment because they tend to build.

Take the Columbus Clippers game which the Ohio Cosgriffs and I were at last Saturday. The home team won, but it was a slog. They weren't hitting very well, and then the second baseman couldn't complete a double play in the top of the seventh inning, which allowed the lead run to score for the visiting Omaha squad. As that night's match could only be seven innings by rule (it didn't start until after 9 PM because of a rain delay, and in the minor leagues any game beginning that late is seven rather than the typical nine innings) that run loomed large. 

Columbus, then, was down 2-1 as they came up for their last at bats. When the first hitter struck out, it looked bad for the Mudville Nine. But the second batter drew a walk, and a pinch runner who was presumably fleet footed was sent to replace him at first base. A bit of hope was felt by the crowd.

Batter three swung mightily at the first pitch he saw yet missed for a strike. But on the next pitch he connected for a moon shot, a huge, arching fly ball which caused the crowd to jump to its collective feet. The ball sure appeared to be a home run off the bat. Yet you must wait and see. You get to anticipate that happiness which you know approaches.

The ball sank around ten rows beyond the left field wall. Cheers erupted. Columbus wins 3-2 on what is known as a walk off homer, because technically the batter doesn't have to jog around the bases, the contest being decided.

He did, of course, and the patrons could revel in that, their patient fandom rewarded with the late victory. 

Sure, walk-offs as such can happen in other sports. But they aren't as magical as in baseball.

Monday Marty Mini-rants

If someone tries to frame you into a Catch-22, do what's right and don't worry about them. No one has the right to put you in an impossible situation. It's the very heart of gaslighting.

If you're damned if you do and damned if you don't, don't. No point working towards damnation.

A stitch in time saves nine. Yeah, I never got that one either.

Sometimes the best thing to do is walk away. You can't let another person's bad attitude affect you.

Lincoln was right: never argue with a fool. People might not be able to tell you apart. 

See what a sleepless night can lead you?

MiLB

The Ohio Cosgriffs and I went to the Columbus Clippers game last night. The Clippers play in the highest baseball minor league, the Triple-A level. It's pretty good ball.

Huntington Park is their home field. It's cozy; seats around 10,000 I'll hazard to guess. It's a nice stadium, pretty much downtown in Ohio's capital.

Baseball brings out the kid in you. Just setting foot in a new arena brings back all those memories of going to games with me Pops and me family. Looking over the old baseball uniforms and equipment on display; the smell of the food; the deep, lush green grass, the bright white bases against the well raked brown soil on the diamond; there's not much better places on Earth than a ballpark. 

I think I'll go again sometime.

82 years

D-Day: June 6, 1944. More than eighty years ago today began the largest amphibious landing of an armed force in world history. As Allied troops hit the beaches at Normandy in the wee hours of the morning, at points code named Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno, and Sword, the liberation of Europe was begun. The high point of the Greatest Generation was underway.

The Greatest Generation stands now at its wane. Its members are all in their 90s now. The celebrations of their accomplishments are becoming fewer, smaller, and less intense. Even with improvements in medicine and diet, only a mere handful will still be around in a decade. Most of their number are gone already.

It is no small compliment to call them the greatest. Has there been any other challenge successfully met by anyone else in any other time? True, we are dealing in immeasurables when we say such things. Yet it's still pretty clear that nothing anywhere close to the magnitude of World War II has occurred in all of human history. Might a greater threat and a greater harm rise? Yes, of course. Indeed, I would expect it at some point. But to date, this is it.

What can we learn from these people? We can learn perseverance, we can learn faith; we can learn to believe that, when a serious threat to home and hearth nears, humanity can rise to meet and defeat it. We can learn the humility which so many of the Greatest have displayed when speaking of their efforts in later years. We can learn that all of history teaches us to respect and remember what those who have gone before us have done for us. We can remember that our lives are here today only because of what they did with their lives, and against terrible odds under unspeakable conditions.

We can learn to respect heroism. We can learn to revere the heroes.

Never forget.

Own It

I recently read an article which claimed that the two sports with the oldest average fan base are baseball and golf. The average baseball fan is 58; for golf, it's 62.

What are two sports I watch far and away more than any others? Baseball and golf.

Old age. I am owning it.

Just Trying for a Picture

As I was enjoying my daily constitutional this morning, I reflected on how pretty nature can be even in the big city. The wispy red clouds which greeted me as I left my house were sublime; a thin mist held sway just above the grounds of nearby Wayne State University. A few minutes later I noticed the morning Sun shining straight down Warren Avenue, wonderfully illuminating even the asphalt pavement in a yellow glow. I decided to try to get a picture of that.

Taking out my phone, I tapped on the camera icon. I sought the best angle for the shot without the bright Sun obliterating the scene. Too much Sun and you wouldn't see anything; it would overpower the lens. Once or twice I tried but things weren't quite right. A third attempt seemed to offer the best picture. 

As I began to take it, other sweet morning sounds came to my ears. There was the blaring of a bugle which may have been a car horn; there was an earnest voice which offered, "Hey old man! Get out of the street you're gonna get killed!"

So maybe morning rush hour traffic isn't the right time to catch nature's beauty. At least not in the middle of Warren in the city of Detroit.

Perchance to Answer

Me Grandpa Joe had a welder rental business which me Pops by and large ran. Dad frequently spoke about two calls. One he refused on principle, the other he nearly refused on a different principle, but took. 

One large company would only call Joe Cosgriff Welding Machine Rentals on weekends, and I mean late on weekends. They'd call at, oh, 11 PM on a Saturday night, all in a dither over some presumed emergency. Joe would grumble, but dutifully take the order and fill it, delivering whatever in the wee hours of a Sunday.

He happened to be out of town one weekend. That company called, and me Pops answered. He refused the rental. "You call somebody else during regular hours but us at off hours. We're not doing business that way," Dad blithely explained to the company rep.

Pops worried a bit what Joe would think, but grandfather sided with his son. Say what you want about Joe, and much can and has been said, when he delegated authority to Pops he never questioned what Dad did. Joe figured, "I told him to run it, so I gotta let him run it."

Another time we were in a recession, and business was bad. That wouldn't stop Joe from taking his trips, so he decided one day to go off on an adventure. Dad, of course, took the reins of the Shop.

He took a call from a very large company (you would recognize it but I won't tell you, just for safety's sake, discretion being the better part of valor) who were notorious for being slow to pay. Me Pops did not like dealing with them. Yet they wanted ten machines asap and there wasn't much other work. Dad opted to take the chance and fill the order, which ballooned into almost every one of the welders Joe owned at the time. At the height of the job, they had 210 units rented.

And, they paid promptly. "I'm glad I took that call!" Dad would say in telling the story. I know Joe did not question his decision on that one.

Poison Girls

I will venture out and say that we have all occasionally heard song lyrics wrong. At times it's simply an honest mistake of the ear. Me brother Phil for example heard the lyric at the start of The Beatles' track Savoy Truffle, which is 'Cream Tangerine, and Montelemar (a French sweet BTW) as, 'Cream Tangerine, go tell your mom'. You get the point.

One of the funniest of such instances came from a friend of mine, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a  name, over the Three Dog Night hit Joy to the World. You know, the song which famously begins, Jeremiah was a bullfrog! The chorus starts, Joy to the world, all the boys and girls. Yet Cloyce heard it as, 'Joy to the world, all the poison girls'.

So there's my gift to you today. An earworm with the wrong words. You're welcome. 

And The Fight Was On

As I take my morning walks these days, I always pass Sam's house. When I do I always think of his relationship with me Grandpa Joe. It was, ah, an interesting friendship.

Sam would come by the old barn regularly. His mission seemed to be to needle Joe. It must be admitted, he was very good at that.

Once Joe had me younger brother painting a car of his with a sponge brush and a can of off the shelf paint. Now, I know that's not the best way to paint a car, but it was Grandpa's car and Patrick didn't mind to get paid to paint it however he was told. Sam happened by and exclaimed emphatically, "You can't paint a car like that!"

"The hell I can't!" Joe replied with an incredibly equal incredulity. And the fight was on.

Another time Sam was paying a visit and Joe was going on about something or other which concerned him. When he finished his rant Sam remarked sullenly, "Ah, I don't care, Joe".

Joe barked in response, an incredibly accurate and proper response, "Yeah, but I do!"

"I just said I don't care!" Sam yelled in reply. And the fight was on.

Similar events occurred countless times over the years. Sam would show up, a conversation would start, sometimes slowly, sometimes explosively, and those two old coots would end up arguing, howling at each other over some kind of nonsense.

The darn thing is, I think they both looked forward to it. I am inclined to think that the more modern term 'frenemies' would describe the situation well.

Evaporating Cloyce

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

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

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

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

We're Cosgriffs, Ma'am

This past February me brother Phil and I faced a dilemma: could we load an entire cargo van with what appeared to be far too much stuff? But we did it, because we knew Dad could. We couldn't let him down. We got that van loaded.

Yesterday I helped my son pick up a sofa from IKEA. Even I was shocked at how much stuff went with it. The stock clerk as she brought everything out advised, "You can take part today and come back tomorrow for the rest," clearly believing our task insurmountable. The trouble was the IKEA was in Canton, Michigan and the sofa was going to Tawas, Michigan, around 200 miles north. A second trip wasn't very practical.

Me son Frank immediately said, "We can take everything out of the boxes and make it work." That's my boy. His grandfather, me Pops, was surely smiling on him too. In Frank's lead (It was his stuff, so I properly deferred to him) we commenced work. In twenty minutes, my new old van was loaded and we were off.

When we arrived in Tawas my daughter-in-law remarked, with proper awe, "Wow. You got all that into your van?"

"We're Cosgriffs, Ma'am. It's what we do," I responded. And that was that.

The Curmudgeon Speaks

The things which irritate an old man...

As I took my morning walk today I noticed a car with a bumper sticker that said, 'I'd rather be riding transit'. And my first thought was, then why aren't you? Why don't you sell that thing, give the cash to the government to put towards transit, and then take the damn bus where you want to go. They're all over the place. I see them every day. Stop signaling whatever virtue you mean to shame me over and put your money where your mouth is.

Then it hit me. You don't want your money to go to transit without a pile of mine to keep it company.

Well, guess what? I don't want to take transit. I want to take my money (which I earned and you did not, by the way), buy me a car, and go wherever the hell I want to go whenever the hell I want to do it. And I do not want nor expect any of your cash for that right.

In other words, blow that empty posturing out your nose, and keep your hand out of my pocket.

The Near Detention

Possibly the closest I came close to detention in high school was during my freshman year. But doggone it, I was in the right. I was.

It was May and we were in Gym class. It was warm, so the instructor took us outside to play softball. I'll call the gym teacher Miss Cloyce just to give her a name, and because, yes, I'm still upset about the injustice 51 years later. I suppose I can hold a grudge.

Be all that as it may, in my first at bat that day I singled. The next batter hit a ground ball to the kid playing first. Now, in baseball and softball, when you're on first and there's a ground ball you have to run for second base. It's called being 'forced': because it's a grounder the batter has the primary right to first base. This means a runner already occupying that base is forced to vacate. Make sense? If not, take my word for it. But you can look it up if you like.

Now in this case, the first baseman fielded the ball, took three steps, and touched first base with her foot. That meant the batter was out. But since the batter was out, I no longer had to surrender first. I could have returned to it as there was no longer a legal runner behind me. I was not 'forced'. That means that in order for me to be put out I had to be tagged with the ball, because I had two safe spots I could choose between. 

After the opposing player touched first, which I obviously saw, I continued towards second anyway. She threw to second. The second baseman caught the ball and touched the base. I slid; he did not tag me. So I was safe, under the rules of the game.

Miss Cloyce called me out because the throw from first beat me (which it did) and the kid playing second touched the bag ahead of me with control of the ball (which is true). But neither address the rules of baserunning.

I took exception. I pleaded my case, arguing to a degree which likely shocked my peers (believe it or not, I was a quiet kid, at least in ninth grade) that no, I was safe because a tag was required because the force was off. Miss Cloyce said I was wrong. I was not. I insisted upon this point quite vehemently.

I kept it up until she barked, "Say one more thing and you get detention." I sputtered and stammered, but went to the bench, muttering. The students nearby gave me a wide berth, shocked at my angry display.

To be fair, I know you shouldn't harshly argue with a teacher (even gym teachers count as teachers, I suppose) so I do admit that Miss Cloyce had to play the detention card, for the sake of discipline and respect. But dammit, I was safe.

Ushered Out Twice

My brother Phil had a good friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who spent about twenty years as a reservist with the Detroit Police. He never did much more than cover at baseball and hockey games but hey, it helped the regular cops out. 

Once Cloyce was working at a baseball game at old Tiger Stadium when, as part of his rounds, he stopped by the DPD office under the stands. The sergeant, indicating a sad looking fellow sitting over to the side, told Cloyce to escort the guy from the premises for public drunkenness. So Cloyce did. 

About three innings later Cloyce was back by the patrol room, and the sergeant told him to show another guy the door. The same guy, in fact. "Isn't he the one I took out before?" Cloyce asked. 

"He bought another ticket and came back in," the sergeant answered with a shrug. Warning the drunk not to return a third time or he'd face a night in jail, the sergeant gave him over to Cloyce. 

Cloyce spent the rest of the game keeping a sharp eye out for the miscreant. He didn't want his own reputation soiled if the guy actually did get back in the ballpark.

Being Mercenary

One old and tired criticism of Christians is that we are 'only' mercenary. It asserts we only strive to do good so that we can sort of buy our way into Heaven while avoiding the punishment of Hell.

Setting aside the point that there's nothing terribly wrong with such an idea - do we actually want to teach that it's better to do evil if you're so inclined rather than do good from less than perfect convictions? - the criticism avoids the generally accepted fact that people are encouraged to be mercenary in other ways, for much less important goals.

Aren't we mercenary in pursuing a job or career path? To seek a nice house in a nice neighborhood? When on the athletic field? In finding a soul mate? While shopping for cool new things or deciding what to have for dinner? In all these areas and countless others aren't we seeking what is good for us, however mundane? Yet in looking for eternal joy we aren't supposed to consider what's good for us, what will make us truly happy?

Absurd. As a practical matter, I'm fine with someone not breaking into my house simply because he fears jail time. It would be better if he weren't to become a thief for the sake of higher ideals: respect for others and personal discipline for a start. Yet whether out of fear or a clear understanding and acceptance of moral good, he would have acted rightly either way.

Being merely mercenary can never condemn a man. It is less than perfect, yes. But if it slips us through the Pearly Gates and keeps the old homestead secure, I should think it worth the trade.

Memorial Day Reflection

Today is the day where we remember those who gave their lives for our country defending our nation in war. I think this year I want to especially remember those who died because of the wars and battles they fought while not having actually been killed facing the enemy.

I'm thinking specifically about me Pops youngest brother, me Uncle John. While he didn't die until 2005, I don't think he ever completely left Vietnam. I believe there were others in similar trials who even after they came home were still fighting. They deserve our thoughts and prayers too. Give them a minute this Memorial Day.

The Voice in the Casino

Discipline. That's what it's all about. Discipline.

I get the urge to go to the casino a couple of times a year. Typically I indulge it once. Yesterday was that day, I hope, anyway, for 2026.

There's a small casino in Hessel, in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula, just up the road a piece from our second home there. It isn't a very big gambling den. I've seen Seven Elevens that are larger in fact. But it's close by when we're in da U.P. and the small size has its charm. 

Typically I play video poker. I know the odds are in the house's favor with any type of gambling (me Pops always said that the winners didn't build the casinos), and perhaps I'm playing a stupid psychological trick on myself, but with poker I feel I have at least a modest amount more control over the game. I can choose what to hold and play hunches, for whatever tiny advantages those strategies may offer. With straight out slot machines, you just pull a lever (push a button these days) and hope.

My budget is twenty bucks. Once that's gone, I'm gone. You can play for as long as an hour on that if you're judicious, and have a bit of luck. Usually I quit when I'm 10-15 dollars behind. That's when I tell myself that this is stupid and cash out what's left.

Yesterday my $20 was gone in about five minutes. Sighing heavily, I thought, heck, I'm on vacation. I'll play another twenty. That's pretty much how the casinos want you to think I'm sure, and for whatever reason gullibility took over. I fed the machine another Jackson.

It was gone relatively soon, although I managed about 20 minutes of play that time around. Mildly upset at myself for losing forty bucks, I started to leave. "Put in another $20," the voice in my head told me.

"Why? I'm already down $40."

"Just put in another twenty," I was assured.

Half disgusted that I was allowing me to talk myself into something stupid, I gave the poker machine another greenback. I hit the draw button and was dealt four kings, a thirty dollar win at the level I was playing. That gave me a $49 credit. "Now cash out," that same voice told me.

I did. That left me 11 dollars down, within my usual loss range. 

You can play games at a casino, and you can listen to the voice in your head. But they each require discipline. That's the key.

Not Exactly Spring Weather

It's still rather cool in Hessel, cooler than normal even though it's late May in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula. There are no buds on the trees, and a few piles of dirty snow are evident from road and driveway clearing due to the unusual snowfall in the area last winter. Today's high is only supposed to be 52, along with clouds, drizzle and windy conditions. I may just order a pizza rather than try to grill outside, and my reading may be inside by a window instead of out in the garage or on the front porch. Oh, I'll layer my clothes and read in the garage for a while, to be sure, because you can't beat the sound of soft rain on a tin roof. But you know what?

It's still Hessel, and a bad day in Hessel is better than a good day at work. Especially if you have a boss like mine. What an ogre.

News Coverage

Well, I've done a thing. I contracted with a PR firm to promote my book A Subtle Armageddon. For $345 they developed a press release which they promised would be sent to nearly 500 news outlets, book retailers, book clubs, influencers, reviewers and various other entities. 

Full disclosure: I expected nothing, and in fact was afraid I was throwing money away. But I did find that the release was sent out through the AP, Associated Press, here, reported verbatim but with a legal disclaimer that all they were doing was forwarding an item sent to them. Whatever. I've been on the AP wire, and not for anything criminal, isolated ASA reviews notwithstanding.

Further, I am being inundated with emails from several people about what they might be willing to offer. Most, quite honesty, involved paying for a new service (though I read them I have so far ignored their offers) and some free (those I took). The firm I contracted also developed a media guide (mine to use as I please, as is the original press release) and have given me advice on what I could do myself with the materials for greater promotion. I don't have to depend on them; I can be proactive with the things they've produced.

I'm going to be coy and not mention the firm's name until I see what happens in the long run. But the early returns are encouraging. I mean, not many of us are on the AP wire, am I right?

My Inner Joe Cosgriff

Me Grandpa Joe, I loved that man. Hoo boy, though, did his temper have a short fuse. I'm sure I've spoken of that. But you know, the older I grow the more I get his temper. And I'll you something further: the older I get, the harder it is to hold that genetic disposition in check. There are times where it's all I can do to keep my temper down. Even then, I still lose it, but that's for another blog.

I can't begin to tell you exactly how much I wanted to throw down on a customer call just yesterday. I didn't, but I sure wanted to.

He had an issue with a drain snake, and I of course work on such animals. He told me what it was doing and I told him what it likely needed. He asked me to ship the part. "Well, why don't you try this test first," I started to explain, because there's a simple way to test this particular item and it could save everyone time and effort if the guy would take a few minutes to try it.

I was cut off, quite rudely I will add, which will not help his case. "We've done all the testing. Send me the part." FYI by his own admission they had not looked inside the motor, and the test I had in mind requires opening the motor.

That's where I nearly lost it, because I know absolutely, beyond any doubt, he had not tried the test I intended to suggest. I know that because it's not something anyone without my knowledge of the problem would know. Not that I'm all that, but merely that it's a very specialized type of knowledge which only someone with experience could have. And you must open the motor to do it. 

I my mind I could actually hear myself yelling at the man (and in Joe's voice no less!) "No! You have not done all the testing; you don't know what the test is! You called me because you don't know what's wrong but now you don't wanna listen to my advice!" I wanted to hang up on him, I was so mad. I haven't missed a rotary phone in ages, but I wished we were on one simply for the grand finale slam of the earpiece onto the cradle.

Instead I'm going to send him the part, and it had best work, for his sake. Because I will go off on him if he calls later with a complaint. I guarantee that.

Customer Base

While on the road early yesterday me brother Phil and I decided to stop for breakfast. We arrived at the front doors of a restaurant exactly as the manager was unlocking them for business. "Just the two of you today?" she asked pleasantly.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll have more customers than us," Phil quipped.

"It's really too early for jokes, sir," she responded. But I thought it was good.