Full Speed Ahead

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

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

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

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

Joe's Birthday

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" the other asked.

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

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

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

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

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

Can't be that busy

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

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

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

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

Trashy Cloyce

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

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

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

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

Raw Reviews

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

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

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

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

Still No Sign Of Land

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

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

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

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

Fruit Salad

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

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

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

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

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

The WNBA Fiasco

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

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

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

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

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

Interim David Gideon

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

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

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

See more about The Interim Generation: Interim

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

Check out what others are saying: DG

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

David Gideon

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

David Gideon

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

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

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

Obsession

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

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

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

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

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

Marty's Armageddon

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

A Subtle Armageddon

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

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

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

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

Moving On

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

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

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

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

Out Of The Loop

The things you learn as time goes by.

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

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

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

Trouble Comes Calling

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

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

What did I think, he asked.

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

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

Bereft of Hope

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

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

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

The Old Ball Game

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If It Suited Joe

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

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

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

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

Newark Technical Support

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

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

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

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

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

Newark Technical Support. Five stars!

Cash Is Indeed King

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

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

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

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

Lunch With Cloyce

Nowadays the operators of drain snakes are taught never to handle the rotating steel cable because of the threat of serious injury. But that wasn't always the case. 

Time out of mind, drain cleaners opened sewers by shoving the spinning cable into the line by hand. The real old timers actually did it bare handed, would you believe it? They handled the greasy black cables, the greasy black coming from the sewer sludge, without gloves. One old plumber, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, took it to a new level. 

To tell it true, Cloyce was a top notch sewer man. Still, his personal habits left something to be desired. He did not for example wash his hands while working. He allowed all that greasy gook to build up on his paws while unclogging those drains all day.

When lunch came, typically an oily sardine sandwich, he would find a place to park his van and eat. With horribly dirty hands. Cloyce would hold his sandwich by a corner, and eat around it until all that would be left was that corner held by slick, black, greasy fingers.

Cloyce would then throw away that part. He wasn't that gross.

Fr. John

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bill Cosgriff, Tax Expert

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huh?

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

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

I am curious what the story is behind that one.

The Harmless Catch-22

Dad jokes.

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

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

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

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

Doggone It

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

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

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

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

Doggone conscience. Hopefully today goes better.

Vote No On All Millages

I'll be voting today in the Michigan primaries. 

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

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

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

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

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

Charles Martin Cosgriff, M.D.

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

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

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

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

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

The Amish Store

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

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

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

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

If Need Be

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

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

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

All in the Details

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matthew Thinks

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

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

Is Matthew right? Find out here.

Laying the money down

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

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

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

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

Hey, it may even make good PR, right?

Woodbridge Nature

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

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

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

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

Donations with Extreme Prejudice

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

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

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

You gotta love that moxie.

Silent Outtakes

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

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

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

I'm just wondering.

Estimating Grandparents

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

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

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

"No," she responded curiously.

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

She laughed. Can you believe that?

Saying So Long

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

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

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

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

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

It's so easy to fix a snake

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I beg your pardon?"

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

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

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

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

Reality Bites

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

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

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

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

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

Grant Smoked

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael's Story (Shameless Plug)

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

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

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

O'Rourke and Dentistry

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

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

I think he's onto something.

Yellow Sky

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

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

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

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

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

Not What I Meant

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

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

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

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

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

Red Giants

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

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

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

Yeah, slow news day, Ron.

Cooling Agent

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

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

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

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

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

"Uhh, yeah," the guy answered uncertainly.

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

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

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

Say Cheese

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

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

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

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

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

No harm, no foul, right?

Let's Get Ready to Rumble

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bean with Bacon

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

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

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

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

Marty and the Art World

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

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

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

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

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

Right Turns (Not Political)

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

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

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

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

Ten Steps to Huh?

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

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

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

Cool Ghoul Cloyce

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

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

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

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

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

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

July 5th

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

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

July 4, 2026

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

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

God Bless the USA. Happy Independence Day everyone.

Oil's Well That Ends Well

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

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

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

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

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

Indeed. 

July 2

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

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

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

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

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

Keeping Time

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

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

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

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

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