A Grand Feeling

Who knows why, really, rather obscure memories sometimes just pop into our heads? 

Yesterday and without any obvious prompting I remembered buying $100,000 candy bars, now called 100 Grand, at the bookstore at the University of Detroit as a freshman 47 years ago. They were a quarter each at the time. I would buy four and savor them over the course of a day. 

The memory came out of nowhere and was so strong I could damn near taste the chocolate and crisped rice. A happiness flowed over and through me which was virtually indescribable. I truly felt like I was back in the Student Union building on campus enjoying a quiet moment between classes. It was that powerful and sublime.

I wasn't in a party store and I wasn't hungry.  Indeed I had no desire for a snack at all. There were no ads in the paper I had just read and the radio was not on to perhaps have set things in motion. I was sitting at my desk at the Shop waiting for a customer to arrive, sipping on a coffee. Then suddenly I was at old U of D and feeling very good about it.

It's a feeling I cannot recreate with any satisfaction even as I try to this morning. I can't come near it. But man, it was profound and powerful and I simply have no clue what triggered it.

The Furnace Man

Our furnace went to heating system Heaven last Wednesday. Oh joy oh rapture. Yet by the grace of God we could readily afford a new one, which was installed Friday. 

The replaced unit had been put in by one Richard Stark back in 1991. He was a friend of me Pops and over the years had done quite a bit of heating work for us Detroit Cosgriffs. He worked on me Pops' furnace, me Grandpa Joe's boiler, and the oil burner at the old barn. Whenever I saw him he was dirty with oil and grime. I'm not sure I could recognize him clean. I guess that goes with heating work.

Mr. Stark had a very serious laugh, if that makes sense, with a genuine twinkle in his eye which indicated that he really was enjoying the joke or the moment. He would actually slap his knee when laughing. Honest. That old saying came to life with him, a real knee slapper.

I remember him slapping a knee once or twice as we talked in my basement while he installed that 1991 furnace. He charged me $1400, a far cry from the four grand the new one cost. But, inflation, yadda, yadda.

Anyway, Mr. Stark was a very nice guy, a truly friendly sort. I would also say that with 35 years behind it, his work lasted too.

Take My Money, Please!

I don't mind asserting that I'm old school on many things; in fact, I revel in it. Still, it can be annoying. Quiet Ron.

Although I pay most things online I do write a couple checks a month. And because I watch my banking online I don't really pay attention to check numbers anymore, nor do I keep a check register. When I write a check, I do my dead level best to keep in mind that a check for such-and-such is out there, and to allow for it when looking in on my account.

Right now there's one check from November which has still not cleared, and it's driving me insane. Again, quiet Ron.

I contacted the people two weeks ago and they assure me they have it and will be cashing it. I have no fear of anything bad happening as they are, I am certain, reputable. But doggone it, they as yet haven't actually put it in their bank.

It's little enough that it won't cause an overdraft unless I badly lose track of things. Yet it's driving me crazy waiting. Will you please, please take my money? is not something I ever thought I'd hear myself say, to anyone under any circumstances. But I will feel much better when the check clears. 

Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On

I ran into an old customer at a plumbing supply yesterday. "I could tell it was you, Marty, by your distinctive laugh," he explained. I hear that often, enough to make a guy feel rather self conscious. But I guess better to be known than not.

Why was I in that plumbing store? I needed a vent for my kitchen sink drain. "Let me see if I have that exact one, Marty," the counter man was telling me when I showed him the old one. "If not, there is another that'll work, but you'll need to reconfigure the line a bit." On hearing that, I fervently, fearfully hoped he had the original type.

He did. For $5.60 I had the part required for the easy fix. I paid, and that's when Old Customer called to me from the other end of the counter.

We chit chatted a few minutes before I excused myself. "Gotta go put this aerator on my kitchen stack," I said.

Old Customer yanked both the old and new parts from my hand. "Do you know how to tell one of these is bad?" he asked. 

Well, I already knew the one was bad. That's why I was there for him to hear my laugh. Yet he was bound and determined to show me just the same. "Hear that rattle?" he asked as he shook the old aerator. "That's how you know it's bad." Old Customer then shook the new part quite emphatically to demonstrate the lack of rattle.

But all I could think, in the moment of panic as he was delightfully showing me what I already knew, was, "Could you please not violently shake the one thing, the only one conveniently available, which will make my job easy?" 

Fortunately, no damage was done. I simply didn't need the demonstration, as much as it pleased him to offer the service.

West Virginia Cans

As I finished my can of Vernors yesterday I noticed for about the umpteenth time in my life an outline of the state of West Virginia on top of it. The symbol was next to the pull tab and after the litany of how many states have deposit laws along with what the deposit is in each. I've seen this for years and always wondered what it meant.

Fear not, dear readers! I shall not leave you hanging as I have figuratively swayed in the breeze for decades. There's a very simple explanation: it shows that the manufacturer of the beverage has paid the tax on soda pop levied by that state.

It's true! It must be, for I found it on the Internet here: West Virginia Tax 

Until next time in the search for knowledge you didn't know you needed, farewell!

All or Nothing

I voted for President Trump not once, but three times. I firmly believe it was the best thing I could do, and, indeed, would do it again under similar circumstances. But I will not go to bat for everything he says and does. That, simply, is intellectually dishonest. People make mistakes or sometimes say and do things which are perplexing if not downright indefensible. We need to be upfront and honest about that, particularly about ourselves and those we support.

Everyone needs to do it. Full stop. I'm not trying to be particularly political here, honest, but President Biden and his supporters needed to do this in recent years. They weren't very willing to speak and act honestly about COVID and were loath to allow the expression of opposing views. The folks attempting to track every move ICE makes, as does ICE itself, need to consider how they act and what they say. So does the religious, the atheist, the sports fan, the everybody. It's okay to defend someone doing something when it is in fact good. We must also be critical of the one doing ill even if we otherwise agree with him.

If this world teaches us anything it teaches us that it is far from perfect. Yet we human beings seem to want everything or nothing. Quite a few of us litmus test. We're seeking gotcha moments rather than truth when we do that. 

I can support Donald Trump in securing the border while questioning just what the hell that speech at Davos was about. Democrats can call for open borders while asking themselves seriously whether Biden had mental troubles which affected his ability to be President. We ought, generally speaking anyway, to treat individual issues and actions as exactly that, and analyze them accordingly. None of that but you're guy is just as bad really helps. It is almost certainly hyperbole to assert a President is the Devil incarnate, even if it's Donald Trump. Or Joe Biden.

You can't have everything, and you must regularly question your own actions and motives. Above all you cannot demonize. That only hardens the heart of the other guy.

Comrade Cloyce

A friend of mine, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, decided for whatever reason several years ago to tour Russia. He and his wife began making plans for the trip.

The travel agent suggested that it would be easier to move around even within that country if they obtained Russian passports. Cloyce never imagined that such things were available to non citizens, but on that advice he and Mrs. Cloyce applied for and were issued Russian passports.

You know how so many pictures of old Soviet leaders look as though they had just been force fed three servings of pickled herring? That's what Cloyce looked like in his Russian passport photo. Comrade Cloyce, I've called him ever since. He truly looked mean and unsavory although he's actually one of the most gregarious men I know. 

Why the grim look? "Because you better not smile especially for a Russian passport picture," Cloyce explained.

Cloyce Adrift

There was once this good ol' boy, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who considered himself the neighborhood innovator. Some of his ideas, to be fair, were kind of clever. But most of the time all he did was jury rig. That's okay too so far as I'm concerned, if it's a decent enough adaptation.

Cloyce had an old Chevy Bel Air, I believe it was a '65, and it needed a wheel alignment. The old rattletrap drifted sharply to the left (this is not leading to a political joke I assure you) and really needed front end work. But ol' Cloyce didn't want to put that kind of money into the car. So he looked around in his garage for what was handy and found an old snow tire. He put it on the car on the left front.

That stopped the drift. His theory was that the snow tire, having deeper tread, made up for the amount of space which had been created by vehicular wear which led to the drift. Based on the results, I'm inclined to say he was right, as he drove with that winter tire for about six months before he got rid of the car.

It was a jury rig. But hey, it worked for him, and considering the types of cars I drive, who am I to argue?

Croquet Anyone?

The things which find their way onto my Facebook page can be interesting if sometimes trivial.

Did you that croquet was an Olympic sport? It's true. It was only once, and that was in the 1900 Paris games. All of the participants were French. And the kicker?

The event sold one ticket.

I have a feeling croquet will not find its way into any future Games. I bet they don't let Jarts in either.

Time Goes By

Carlos Beltran has been elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame. Congrats to him. He actually has a spot of sorts in my heart, although probably for something he doesn't care to recall.

On September 27, 1999, the Detroit Tigers played their last game at old Tiger Stadium, a long gone baseball cathedral. I loved the place, and was fortunate enough to be at that final contest.

The visitors were the Kansas City Royals. The Tigers won 8-2. None other than rookie Carlos Beltran struck out in the top of the Ninth Inning for the last out ever at what Detroiters called The Corner, for the intersection of Michigan and Trumbull Avenues where the ballpark stood.

I'm happy you made the Hall, Carlos. I'm happy that you struck out that long ago day too.

Jam

I highly, highly, highly (have I said highly?) recommend Triple Berry Jam from Verellen's Orchard in Romeo, Michigan. I've had it before and bought some in October, and then promptly forgot I had it.

I benembered yesterday. Yes, I spelled that wrong, because I feel like a little kid eating it slathered on plain bread or toast. It's da bomb. That's what kids these days say, right?

Well, whatever the current equivalent of delightful and outstanding is, Triple Berry Jam fits the description. No one else may get any now that I've found it in the larder, and I may just have to call on my Romeo accounts next week simply to buy more.

Cloyce and the blood blister

When we moved into our house, the upstairs bathroom had a nice mahogany toilet seat. But as with all things human made, it eventually broke. I went to the hardware and bought a decent replacement. We simply threw the old one in the common dumpster which we shared at that time with about six neighbors.

Several days later I happened to be visiting in my neighbor's house; I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. Excusing myself to use his washroom, I saw a nicely refinished mahogany toilet seat. "Where did you get this, Cloyce?" I asked.

"Out of the dumpster. Isn't it cool? Someone was just throwing it out; can you believe that?" He had taken the thing, scrubbed it clean, reglued and refinished it, and put it on his commode.

I answered, "Yes I can, because it was mine. I can't believe you took something like from a dumpster!"

"It's perfectly good," he protested. But that didn't keep Cloyce from chastising me several days later when the seat had rebroken and left a blood blister on the back of his thigh. "You toilet seat did it to me," he whined.

"Serves you right dumpster diving stuff like that," was all I said.

Music Critic

I occasionally sing, generally softly, when I'm driving. A song will pop into my head and I'll sing along with it.

With me brother Patrick in tow as I went to Mass Saturday I half sang, half hummed King of the Road.

A minute later and it was Flowers on the Wall.

After that, as I was just starting Hank Williams Jr.'s Family Tradition, Patrick blurted out, "Keep your day job."

All right, maybe my voice gets old. And at least I know where I stand with him.

Dr. Gilligan Smith

Gilligan's Island; such hilarity. Every time the castaways have a shot at getting off the island, he fouls it up. He's naive but inept.

Late last night, well, early this morning, I was watching an episode of Lost In Space. Dr. Smith had stumbled upon a contraption which might have gotten the Jupiter Two safely back to Earth. Yet his own nefarious scheme interfered, and the plan couldn't work. Smith is conniving but inept.

That's when it hit me: Gilligan and Dr. Smith are the same person, just at different ends of the spectrum. One is evil and inept while the other is good hearted but inept. That's my conspiracy theory for you to contemplate this Sunday.

Satan's Fiddle

Okay, I'm probably going to lose all my hillbilly street cred to say this, but, hey, what's a day without riling someone up? Without stirring the pot? Without, without, without some third concept which means basically the same thing as riling someone up or stirring the pot?

The Devil Went Down to Georgia is classic southern rock, am I right? It deserves to be high on the list of great 70s power country. But now, let's be honest: the Devil actually outplayed Johnny, right? Come on, we've all thought it. Might as well say it.

Sorry Charlie, uh, Daniels. It's a great, great song. But you really needed to tone down Satan's fiddle solo.

Not So Subtle

One of my New Year's Resolutions, and likely the only one which I will seriously attempt to fulfill, is to put more effort into promoting my scribbles. Of my books available, three in all formats (hardcover, paperback, and Kindle) and two currently only available in Kindle (I do mean to make them available in the more traditional forms this year, I swear!) my first, A Subtle Armageddon, seems to be getting the most traction, so I will concentrate on it while not forgetting the rest.

That's one hell of a complex sentence for a writer, isn't it? Five commas and two bracketed asides before even getting to word count. I need to work on that.

But so, Brian O'Callaghan says this about ASA: 

"A Subtle Armageddon: Book 1 of the Infinity Series" invites readers on a breathtaking journey into a richly imagined world that delves deep into themes of solitude, identity, and the search for purpose. This profound narrative follows 'the man' as he navigates the haunting remnants of a once-thriving civilization, each desolate landscape echoing the whispers of its past. Through his solitary quest for self-discovery and existential truth, the story artfully intertwines allegory and reflection, challenging readers to ponder the complexities of their own existence amidst the ruins of a world transformed.

Thank you Brian! Remember that A Subtle Armageddon is available here.

Snow Sentimentality

Ah, snow. We had around 2 or 3 inches in the metro Detroit area yesterday and overnight. That's not too bad, really.

I remember snow in years gone by, both as a child and an adult with children, getting up early and turning on the TV to watch the scroll of closed schools, or having an ear to the radio listening intently as the newsreader droned on, to see if either I had a day off or might at least not have to rush clearing the cars and the walks.

I miss those days. Now all there is is to get out there and clear the walks and cars. There's nothing to look forward to after that. No snowball fights. No snow forts. None of the welcome if unscheduled day without classes. Just a nice clear walk and a vehicle you can drive while actually seeing where you're headed, and go to work anyway.

No 'Quiet Ron' here. I just know he has something to say.

Lost Cause

There was this guy I grew up with - I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name - who was in his youth a Boy Scout. He actually made Eagle Scout. Well, bald eagle scout. Premature hair loss.

One day he got separated from his troop while on a nature hike, and it took several hours for his companions to find him. "Why didn't you use your compass to find the camp?" his exasperated scoutmaster demanded upon discovery.

"I tried!" Cloyce answered. "But all I could tell was that I was as far from the east as I was from the west!"

Hey, I just said he was a scout. I didn't say he was a good one.

Renee and Iran

So Iran has admitted to mass causalities. A place that has actual repression. A place where women are actually stoned to death for not dressing properly. A place where the female protestors are removing hijabs as a protest and literally getting killed for it. Such actions demonstrate that at the least many Muslim women are not wearing them voluntarily, as our left wing often claims. Over here, we have one unfortunate death where a protestor was caught on camera being violent, leading to her death. Yet we are trying to equate the two. In fact, not even equating the two, but basically ignoring Iran, because that would mean admitting we have a problem with an Islamic nation and conceding our problems aren't so bad.

Why can't the left criticize Islam? They're very good at criticizing authoritarianism here (while quite guilty of it themselves) then wear hijabs to show support for that religion while the Muslim citizenry in Teheran are being shot for removing theirs.

I'm going to say it: the sanctimony of the protestors is simply appalling. They see the splinter in our eyes while not the plank in theirs.

What happened to Renee Good was tragic yet ultimately avoidable if she had simply done as ordered, even if you believe the ICE agents acted wrongly. There's a very easy to follow rule in this country: do what the officer says and you will almost always (because I understand that authorities are subject to act wrongly...yet the exception does not negate the rule) walk away alive. Remove your face covering in Iran and You. Get. Shot.

The United States isn't perfect. But it's a damn sight better than most of the rest of the world, and it's about time our progressive friends admitted it. They can start by actual peaceful protesting, and not obstructing justice.

Having My Dance Card Filled

I began seeing a doctor regularly in 2016 after around a twenty-year delinquency. My pulse was low from my very first appointment in the years since, generally 48 or 49, while 60-100 is considered okay. Yet other than an initial EKG, my physician decided that 48 was simply my normal. We'd watch it and that was that. He said at the time that if it dropped to 40 or below further testing would be necessary.

Good old Marty turned 65 his last birthday. At my October checkup, just a routine checkup, mind you, nothing to see here folks just move along, my doctor said he thought I should see a cardiologist about the still low pulse. "It's been that way before!" I protested.

"You weren't 65 before," he answered. I didn't want to do it, but paranoia once your doc suggests an idea, any medical idea, makes a guy grumble but accept fate. I arranged to see the heart doctor January 9, last Friday. Everything will be all right, right? I'll be out in an hour and living the Life of Riley again.

An EKG was required as soon as I arrived. But that's okay. It even makes sense when you visit a cardiologist the first time, right? So I have the EKG, am shuttled to an examination room, and wait. 

Within a few minutes the doctor comes in. "Your EKG was outstanding, Mr. Cosgriff. Based on it I'd say you're as healthy as a horse."

Great! I can go now, methinks. "But I'd like you to have a sonogram," he continued. "We can do it right now and save you a trip back."

But, but, my EKG! Horse healthy! Yet also paranoia about not doing what my cardiologist thinks a good idea. And a return visit saved. I agree to the sonogram.

Other than a vaguely larger than average aorta ("We'll note it, but not a worry, Mr. Cosgriff") the sonogram was spectacular. I can go now? "There is this thing about your red blood count slightly higher than normal, Mr. Cosgriff. Do you sleep well? Do you snore?" I think you may have undiagnosed sleep apnea; that can drive up you red count."

What does that mean? It means three more referrals for this, that, and the other thing. It means wearing a heart monitor for two weeks, even though the EKG and sonogram tests were passed with flying colors, because it doesn't hurt to get a longer term look at the old ticker just the same. It means seeing an ENT,  an Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist, because if it's sleep apnea what ails ya it may be due to a sinus defect. It means, ugh, a night at a sleep clinic, with electrodes attached all over my aging Dad bod in order to see if the trouble actually is sleep apnea while I try to somehow get a decent night's sleep with electrodes all over my head, neck, and torso. It means a breathing test to make sure my lung capacity is up to snuff, even though my lungs sounded completely clear when the cardiologist and his pulmomary specialist checked during the January 9 appointment.

All of that from a low pulse which had been low for a decade. 

Is this my life now? Will the rest of my days be filled seeing Dr. Howard, Dr. Fine, and Dr. Howard whenever any irregular number is present on my checkups? Does senior citizen status mean that any new friends I meet will have MD after their name? 

Better safe than sorry, I suppose. But still, really? All this? Har-rumph.

Fashion Plate

While at the funeral home for me Grandpa Joe years back I met an old gentleman who knew both him and me Grandma Cosgriff when they were all youths in Jacksonville, Illinois. The three went to school together as I recall.

It was quite nice of the man to come offer his respects. I want to say he dressed for it, and I suppose he did, though his clothing showed little fashion sense. That's saying something coming from me.

I won't say that he clashed. But he clashed. Spectacularly. A checkered sport coat covered a plaid shirt, while striped pants adorned his legs. His tie was paisley and shoes were white. Blazing white in fact, white hot as the Sun. Even the kerchief in his suit pocket had a pattern of its own. It seemed to change as he moved.

At least I think it did. You know how snowy over the air TV is when there's the barest reception? That man was a walking motion picture snowstorm, an epic blizzard of activity upon itself. But he was there, so God bless him for that. I'm actually glad I got to meet him. I have something to aspire towards.

SpongeBob Umpire

I'm not a fan of the Nickelodeon cartoon character SpongeBob Squarepants. But I could get to like his theme song, if adapted as a Columbus Clippers fan suggested when I attended a game one Saturday night. 

Baseball batters often have 'walk up' music, which is played when they approach home plate for an at bat. One player chose the SpongeBob opening. The first verse begins "Whoooo lives in a pineapple under the sea?" The response is an enthusiatic "SpongeBob Squarepants!" To give you an idea of how the song bounces about, here it is: SpongeBob Theme

As it turned out, the home plate umpire in the game was having a bad time of it that evening. At one point a spectator behind me began his own version of SpongeBob: "Whooooo wants to put umpires under the sea?" 

It's really fun if you sing the refrain afterwards.

Fair Tips

After curling one night a group of us went to a pub and grub. One of my buddies, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, left early. He left his credit card receipt on the table after he signed it, adding a six dollar tip for the waitress.

It was a fair tip, to be honest. But not fair enough. I added a one before the six.

At 7:30 the next morning I got a call from Cloyce. He monitors his credit and debit cards religiously. "Did you mess with my credit card?" he asked.

"Now why would I do that?" I responded innocently.

"You did, didn't you? You expletive."

Hey, I was going to give him his money back. But he called me an expletive, so expletive that.

Say What?

I spent about ten minutes on the phone yesterday, rescheduling a routine checkup with my geriatric specialist. Geriatric specialist? In simpler terms, an old guy doctor. 

The ten minute wait was all right. Indeed it was less than I expected. A couple of times a voice broke in offering a call back (without losing my place in the queue) rather than further time on hold. I didn't want to risk that. With my luck, as I was using my business phone as a personal line (I'm the boss, I can do it) I feared being caught on another call. 

What concerned me was hearing what I thought I must have heard wrong, but sure sounded right. The disembodied computer voice said, "If you would like to continue to hold, we will take your call when it is convenient to us."

They meant, in the order it was received. They must have, right? It would be pretty blatant to say what I thought they said, the old saying the quiet part out loud. I'm sure I heard it wrong.

So while I'm at it, perhaps I should make an appointment for a hearing aid too.

Death Rat

The book I am currently reading is a work of nonfiction called Death Rat. It's a comedy.

I really like it. It's by Mike Nelson of Mystery Science Theater 3000 and Rifftrax fame, if that helps. I don't want to say too much in case you should want to read it yourself, but here's one spoiler. As a history wonk I find it delightfully funny.

He makes a joke of sorts about the Webster-Ashburton Treaty and I laughed out loud at it. I'm sure many readers, okay, perhaps one or two, all right, none of you, are now frantically doing a web search on the Webster-Ashburton Treaty. You'll end up concerned that Marty might find anything even remotely funny about an obscure international agreement which may have staved off a major war between Great Britain and these United States. And you might be right. But I thought the humor well played.

Or maybe I just need to get out more often. Quiet, Ron.

Properly Said

I know that it rings when thought of as literature. I know that it's firmly part of the American lexicon. I know that I'm playing with alternate history even. But I wish Thomas Jefferson hadn't said that our inalienable rights were 'life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness'. I wish he'd stuck with the original terminology.

The philosopher John Locke coined the phrase 'Life, Liberty, and Property' which Jefferson supposedly adapted for use in the Declaration of Independence. Locke's point? That life and liberty can't mean much if you can't own. You have no real control of your life and freedom of movement and thought if you cannot say about your home, your land, hell, even the shirt on your back, 'This is mine'. You must be able to control what is near and dear to you for freedom to be possible. You can't do that if society owns all.

I doubt that you can pursue happiness either. But softening the language gives folks such as, oh, socialists, a wrench to take property away. The US isn't founded on that, it's founded on happiness, they may say, and then proceed to instruct you on what manner of happiness you may pursue, dependent of course on what they like at the moment. If that means your business or farm, c'est la vie.

Only the person can make a better world. Only a person who can control what is within his grasp can learn the responsibility of stewardship. Change the world? You want to make the world a better place? Then clean your room, Jordan Petersen remarked quite profoundly. But you have to own it to appreciate responsibility for it.

Basic morality requires the 'rugged' individual over the 'warm' collective, Mr. Mamdani. Ye speak with forked tongue.

Not Quite Winners

About a month after me son Charlie mustered out of the Army, as we sat anticipating some waste of time on TV one night, we decided we wanted pizza. As we drove to the pizza parlor we came across dozens, maybe a hundred, small pieces of paper strewn across the street. "What are they?" Charlie wondered allowed.

"They look like lottery slips," I responded. While Michigan like many other states still has scratch offs, many lottery tickets by then were printed by computer and had bar code identification.

My son asked, "Want to pick them up?" I knew what he thinking, because I was curious about the same thing. But I said, "They've gotta be losers or they wouldn't be all over the street." Still, an overlooked small winner might pay for our food, and lottery tickets are bearer items. Maybe we might luck up.

I pulled over the van and we began collecting what were indeed lottery slips. And there were several dozen. Once gathered, we went to a nearby party store to check them out.

Fortunately, with the bar codes, we were able to check the tickets at a scanner rather than be pests to the clerk. With each scanned paper I think Charlie and I both held our breaths slightly, hoping for some bit of good news, our anticipation oddly building with every loser. Perhaps the next would be the one! Sadly, there were no major or minor winners. Our effort was for nil.

Still, the thought that maybe we had passed up on some small windfall would have haunted me, and maybe my son, until this day. I'm glad we at least tried. And we did get all that litter off the street. 

From Thought to Praise

I've said before that I have been very much affected by the book Death on a Friday Afternoon by Fr. Richard John Neuhaus. It fairly shattered all my previous thoughts about God, sacrifice, and mercy. I still find myself ruminating over Neuhaus' words, having read the book twice now and working on a third pass.

One concept he introduced to me, and I'm shocked I had never came across it before, is the idea that Theology becomes Doxology. In less academic terms, thinking honestly about God turns into praise of Him, His grace, and His glory. A doxology by the way is typically a short hymn of praise.

It works like that, you know. When you think about all God has done for you, when you consider 'All the works thy Hands have made', seen the stars, heard the rolling thunder, 'Thy power throughout the universe displayed' you cannot help but proclaim How Great Thou Art!

Theology becomes doxology. I think this is very true.

What Difference Does it Make?

There was once a plumber who came to our Shop who was a bit rough around the edges. I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. Cloyce was a good guy and a good plumber just, as I said, rough around the edges. Gruff. He was also from England. Not that that matters, except to the story.

One day as he waited for me to put a new cord on his Electric Eel Model C (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs) I decided to engage him in conversation and to satisfy my curiosity about a question. "So where exactly in England are you from, Cloyce?" I asked.

He asked in return, "Do you know England very well?"

"No, not really," I replied honestly.

"Then what the (insert common expletive here) difference does it make?"

I was initially surprised, then I laughed out loud. It was vintage Cloyce.

He was from Norwich, just so you know. Although I don't know what the (insert common expletive here) difference it makes.

Reviewing Reviewers

I spent most of this morning reading reviews of my own books. It's a valuable way to measure how good or bad they may be. Of course, I like my writing. But my opinion of me is quite skewed.

The extremes you can toss off without much thought. There's the occasional one which gushes as though I've written the Great American Novel. I haven't. My books are decent enough but won't be mentioned in literature courses two hundred years from now. Then there's reviews which rip a book to shreds. I pass over those equally. I think I can honestly say nothing of mine is shallow or amateurish. Yet for whatever reason the reader was horribly offended. Oh well.

It's the ones which are constructive, or at least are obviously trying to be, which are the most useful even where I disagree. I've been told I use too many adverbs. I'm not sure that I do, but the issue comes up enough that I need to consider it. Similarly, a book is occasionally dinged as in need of a professional edit. That might be useful, I admit. Yet those things cost (one to two thousand dollars is not unusual), and I'm not sure there's a real return on investment there, at least at this stage of my literary career. As I'm doing this writing thing mostly on a hope and a prayer, I'm set to do what promotion I can on the cheap and see how it all plays out.

On the whole, things look good. Each book (five are currently available) ranks between 4.3 and 4.7 on Amazon's five star scale, and the general interest readers appear to like them. And that's my intended audience. Not grammar geeks, though grammar is far more important than we think, but folks who just like to read. Enough so to give even my scribbles a chance.

By the way, my books are available online. It's true! Just click any of the following: David Gideon A Subtle Armageddon Michael's Story The Interim Generation and Family Lore

Rudolph's New Year

We're in that special time of year where there are specials. Many, many specials. Most of them are Christmas shows, repeated in many cases for eons. Some of them probably should never again see the light of day. But the television schedule must be filled, so the good is repeated with the bad.

Rankin-Bass (purveyors of many holiday programs, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer likely the most well known and loved) in an obvious attempt to take advantage of sentimentality, in 1975 created a New Year's special featuring our nasally powerful friend.

It isn't good. I caught it on last night (New Year's Eve) and could have spent my time better. But one thing about it left me laughing. It was surely unintentionally funny, and maybe only my warped mind thinks so. 

To cut to the chase, when a new year rings in 'old' year retires to an individually chosen island where it stays his year forever. The island of 1889, for example, stays locked in 1889 for all times. It serves the plot, I suppose. You don't want to kill off a character, in this case an old man who represents the passing year, in a kid's show.

My question is this. If each island stays a given year, does that mean that the island of 1352 repeats the Black Plague forever? In 1883, must Krakatoa constantly erupt? Does 1943 live the Battle of Stalingrad over and over again? How about Rome getting sacked day in and day out by barbarians on island 476? Must Bill Buckner constantly have that ground ball hop through his legs from the 1986 World Series for all times, for crying out loud? None of that sounds like retirement. It sounds like Hell.

I'm just asking.