Socialism and Exorcism

I've read that the United States Postal Service may run out of money and go out of business by the end of the year. No doubt that's hyperbole, but it wouldn't bother me.

I stood in line for more than an hour yesterday at the main Post Office in Detroit, and I've come to a conclusion. Every kid who thinks they might like socialism ought to be made to wait in line at the Post Office every day for a week. If that doesn't affect their minds properly, there's always exorcism. 

It wouldn't be so bad if this weren't typical. Yet most of the time when I go to the USPS, I wait. And wait. And wait. But when I take my packages to the United Parcel Service, I'm out of there before my grandchildren graduate high school. Kidding aside, at the UPS center I use when I can I've been done in ten or fifteen minutes when there's been a line out the door. Say what you want about big business, and like all human endeavors it has its flaws, response time generally isn't one of them.

One cashier was at the desk yesterday while the line was nearly twenty at its highest. To be sure, several employees wandered in and out. And I mean wander: you'd think they were on a walk in the park. But no extra help was forthcoming.

This is why I pay nearly all my bills online. Although that, to be fair, merits a rant at another time.

Canadian Form

Americans have a tendency to look at all things government and wonder, "How can I circumvent that?" For me a good example lies in a mere traffic signal.

One afternoon I sat in the left turn lane of an avenue which held me still because of a steady red arrow. That arrow meant that I couldn't turn. I found myself asking impertinent questions. Can I turn now? Will I get away with it? How much would the ticket be if not? Would there be points on my driver's license? There was absolutely no other traffic. I could have done it, I could have turned. In the end I waited for a green arrow. Curse your timidly in the face of tyranny, Marty.

Contrast this to the Canadian ideal of simply being nice. As it happened, I was soon after the above related incident driving along a route in Canada with a Canadian friend as a passenger. Caught by a solid red arrow at an intersection where I needed to go left, I asked my buddy if I might ignore the signal. "Oh, bad form," he advised me.

Yanks care about getting away with something. Canadians? Well, you decide.

Palm Sunday 2026

Philippians 2:6-11

Christ Jesus, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God something to be grasped. Rather, he emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, coming in human likeness; and found human in appearance, he humbled himself, becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Because of this, God greatly exalted him and bestowed on him the name which is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend, of those in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that JESUS CHRIST IS LORD, to the glory of God the Father.

This is perhaps my favorite passage in all the Epistles. There are few greater explanations of the glory and triumph of Christ than these words of St. Paul. I hope that you may find the same inspiration in them as I do.

Kaos or Control

I'm mad at Words With Friends, the puzzle game you can play with, uh, friends. It will not allow me to use the words Kaos.

That's an injustice. I've watched Get Smart for years and the two agencies at each other's throats are Maxwell Smart's Control, and Siegfried's Kaos. So far as I'm concerned, that makes it legit.

So. There.

Shout Out to Curlers

I'm going to indulge myself (like I've never done that before!) and give a shout out to my curling teammates from the Thursday night league at the Detroit Curling Club. They may not, and indeed probably will not, see this blog. But I already told them personally how happy I was with their play, so they know.

We began last night's game playing unusually sloppy. We were down 4-0 after an awful first end (ends are more or less equivalent to baseball innings) in which yours truly hurt the team by overthrowing a takeout (trying to remove an opponent's stone from play) and missing completely, given them an easy four. We scored once in the second when my sweepers kept my last rock going to barely win a point, then forced the other team to take a point (I'll just stop explaining now because it'll get too complicated, but that was a good thing under the circumstances) in the third end and were forced ourselves to one in the fourth. So we're down 5-2 halfway through the game.

Then the boys turned it on. We stole the last four ends to win. 

Okay, one more explanation: last rock of an end is called the hammer, because if you play it right you use it to score multiple points. The team with last rock is presumed to have the advantage. You 'steal' an end when you score without hammer. Hammer is sorta akin to batting last, if I may use another baseball comparison. So to steal four straight ends is a significant accomplishment.

I'll admit I wasn't thrilled with our chances after that 4 set us back early, but things snowballed for us. When Jeff, our Vice (throwing third rocks on the team; okay, so maybe I'll squeeze in another aside) drew the top of the button in the sixth end which could not be outdrawn and led us to two for a tie at that point, I knew we'd turned the corner. We stole two in the 7th and 1 in the 8th to win.

Great game, guys. It's why we play, eh?

Telemedicine

I had a follow up appointment with my hematologist yesterday. Everything's good, and no serious issues. Yet I did have an issue of nonmedical import.

Last Thursday I received a text asking me to pre-register for yesterday's visit. So I clicked the link embedded within and filled out all the questions asked. It's no big deal. I do it every time I have to see a doctor.

A text came Tuesday reminding me of my Noon appointment. Okay, fine. That's not unusual either, and probably good for a guy like me who's admittedly becoming terrible about out of sight, out of mind.

I arrived 30 minutes beforehand and checked in. Told that all was copasetic, I was sent on to the hematologist's office. I signed in. Everything was normal that far.

The nurse called me to the desk. "Oh, Mr. Cosgriff, you didn't have to come in. Today was supposed to be a telemedicine call, since it's only a follow up on the tests you had. But since you're here the Doctor will see you."

Well, nuts. Yet the real exasperation is that for all the organization involved, all the automatic prompts and encouragements, no one caught that it was supposed to be a telephone appointment (the hematologist was simply going to call me with the results) until I was all the way to the receptionist's desk at hematology. I wasn't even required, technically, to register for it. The Doc was just going to call me and that was all. 

No one caught it. That doesn't exactly give me confidence in the system.

Must Be AI

I resist click bait, if for no other reason than that it wastes time. But occasionally I go for it, and then immediately remember why I avoid it. Clickbait wastes time and is often plain wrong.

This morning I clicked on The Most Beautiful Unknown Small Towns in Michigan which Michiganders don't know. The first was Saugatuck. Well, perhaps it fits. I only know it marginally, as somewhere near Lake Michigan. Second was Frankenmuth.

Oh, come on. If you're from Michigan and don't know Frankenmuth, well, you're not really from Michigan.

I didn't even bother checking the rest of the list. Just avoid clickbait folks.

The trouble with magic and time travel

I watched Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone over the weekend not because I was encamped at home with nothing better to do but because my son had the Rifftrax of it and we figured it would be fun. Quite bluntly, I cannot imagine myself watching it without the riffs. Nothing personal, Potter fans.

Anyway, it reminded me of why I can't take stories about magic (or time travel) seriously if they're supposed to be serious movies. They're both impossible (time travel and magic) and invite all sorts of inconsistency.

During one scene in the aforementioned movie a kid clearly breaks his arm. The instructing wizard stops the lesson to take the unfortunate boy to the infirmary. That's all well and good, and of course necessary and proper in the real world. But in that world of magic all I could think was, why are you making this kid endure all that misery? Why don't you just wave your wand and heal his injury?

Ditto time travel. If taken at face value, either everything will always be in flux as folks gallivant about changing everything, or you should just be able to go fix the problem and be done with it. It's okay with comedy such as Back to the Future as you're not expected to take it seriously. But as a plot device in a drama it's really rather stupid.

Yes, yes, yes, suspend disbelief and enjoy the films on their own merit I will be told. I will even concede such movies might make passable entertainment. Still, the inconsistencies inherent in them will always bug me.

Rant (if this qualifies as one) over.

Trump Went Too Far This Time

We. as individuals and within our various groups, need to self police. We need to examine what we say and do and to explain, expand upon, and apologize as necessary for our words and deeds. And we cannot be afraid to censure our friends when they cross a line. Perhaps especially so then. President Trump merits censure by tweeting he was glad Robert Mueller had died. 

We should never, ever, under any circumstances revel in a person's death. What they need at that time are prayers, charity, consideration for their souls, and concern for the suffering of their families left behind. Stating we're glad they're dead is never justifiable. 

I don't care that our opponents have acted similarly. The defense that it's just Trump being Trump is a dodge. It does not matter that our adversaries will, and they will, use our necessary self reflection against us. We are called to love everyone. That means wanting the good for them. That means prayers and charity upon death. Even before that, quite frankly, but particularly then. Full stop.

The President saying that he's happy a fellow human being has died is disgusting, reprehensible, and indefensible. We must say it. Out loud. And no matter what. 

Weeping for Lazarus

In today's Gospel in the Catholic lectionary, we hear the story of Lazarus raised from the dead. Lazarus was the brother of Martha and Mary, and Christ was personally close to them. 

While two days away preaching Christ was informed that Lazarus was very ill. By the time he reached Bethany where the three friends lived, Lazarus had been dead four days. As Christ approached the tomb, He wept.

That's rather peculiar, isn't it? In the moments before Our Lord was to pray to His Father for help, He wept. He was soon to command, "Lazarus, come out!" surely knowing he would, yet Jesus cried. But why should He?

Because he understood the evil of death better than we can. Christ understood it on a deeper, more profound level. He became man precisely to do that, to take on fully what it means to be human and to atone for evils such as death. He would eventually die for that, hung from a tree as the Apostles would say, to make a better life possible for you and me.

That's love. That's why we need to accept as our Savior, Christ Jesus.

Hold Thy Tongue Marty

As a general rule, it really is best to hold your tongue. But, hell, sometimes that can be hard.

I sent an order UPS to a customer. Okay, I sent my brother out with the package to UPS it to a customer, but potato, pa-tat-o. After he had left the old barn, and as they had prepaid, I sent an email explaining that the order was on its way and that I would be snail mailing a paid invoice later that day. That's a standard business practice, right?

The next day I received an email from said customer wondering why, as they received the parcel, there was not an invoice enclosed. They enquired, would I be sending one by the regular mail?

I might not have been quite so upset with the question except that they asked it in a reply to the original email informing them that a paid invoice was forthcoming in the regular mail. 

Bite. Thy. Tongue. Marty. 

I cannot tell you how badly I wanted to reply to the email by asking if they actually read their emails. I cannot tell you how seriously I considered a smarmy, snide response. Something along the lines of, 'What? You didn't get an invoice? I will overnight air one to you immediately!' or some such. But no, I calmly replied that one was already in the mail, and to let me know if they didn't get it soon. 

I'm easing my anger by writing this blog entry. But I'll bet you know the feelings I'm dealing with, eh?

Technology Which Festers

I get it. You get it. We all get it. The Internet follows us around. 

You order one thing - one thing - and the Internet thinks you need hundreds of it. Thousands. 

Yesterday I ordered a 23557 Clutch Casting for a Ridgid K-1500 mainline drain cleaning machine. I haven't needed one in years. The one I'm getting may be the only one I need for the next four or five. Yet the first thing which came up this morning on not one but two websites I frequent were ads for that part.

What particularly annoys me is not only the general uselessness of the ads, but that they didn't encourage me to buy another for purely economic reasons. Each happily informed me that I could get AN AUTHENTIC RIDGID 23557 CLUTCH CASTING FOR ONLY $173.99! But hell, the one I actually ordered was forty bucks less. If I need another anytime soon I'm going back to those guys.

But to give you, yes, YOU, the chance to satisfy your curiosity as to what I'm talking about and be smothered in ads for such a part, click here. Yes, it's for the more expensive one. I'm not telling you all my secrets. You'll buy the cheaper one and then overcharge me.

Organization Hurts

I have too much of a lazy streak, and I'm perfectly aware of it. Still, there are times where the cleaning bug hits. Or, more truthfully, forces my hand.

It's been incredibly busy at the old barn these last few weeks. For that I am truly thankful; it means the bills get paid and there's some left over to save and squander. I'm better at the latter than the former, although I am improving at putting money back, and even at avoiding impulse buys. At Meijer the other day I actually returned a baseball magazine to the shelf. Why read projections for the upcoming season which will almost certainly be wrong when I can read tons of baseball articles online, if not for free at least already paid for through internet and cell phone fees. 

But I digress.

As a consequence of the flush of work (heh, heh, flush, from a guy who sells drain snakes) the Shop has gotten very crowded. It reached the point where I was cautiously stepping over and around machines to get to my work spaces. I often had to move two to four units to get to the one I wanted to fix, then doing it again an hour later on the next repair. That won't do for the long haul. So I spent Saturday and Sunday organizing. 

I did a good job of it too, if I may say so myself. I created easy access to my tools and my main work areas. I could by the end of Sunday afternoon actually walk into what goes for my office and readily get to the shelves at the back of it, where I stock small parts and cutters. There were - try to wrap your head around this - aisles I could walk through from the front to the back of the old barn. It was still crowded. But getting from A to B was doable without risking accidental death or disfigurement.

Monday morning when I opened, around six AM to hit the work week running, the Shop was dark. I kill the lights at night, you see. As I reached into my pocket for my cell to use its flashlight function to illuminate my way to the fuse box (yes, the Shop still has fuses) I thought, "Marty, you don't need to do that. You created a path!" So I boldly went forth with no fear, not a care in the world...and knocked the wind out of me, striding smack into the handle of a drain machine which stuck out into the aisle. I sucker punched myself in the gut. Pride goeth before the fall indeed.

David Gets Complimented

I typically avoid politics. Honestly ... I haven't watched the news in three years. I don't even know why I chose this book. But I'm glad I did. The characters were believable, and the discussions thought-provoking, pensive and entertaining. I could see a TV series in the future. Write-on Charles.

Well, thank you Rick on Amazon. I am very pleased with your review of my book David Gideon. It isn't really supposed to be about politics but, rather, David becoming President is merely the hook. On that basis, it does offer a forum for raising questions and having discussions about this issue or that, whether within the circle of family and friends or in the larger society. I don't want readers to get hung up on his Presidency. I want them to see the man, and the woman behind him. David may not be the actual hero, you know. 

Write-on Charles. I like that turn of phrase. And a TV show? Well, I hadn't given it that much thought. But man, what a compliment!

A fella is naturally apprehensive in putting his writing out for public consumption. I mean, this blog, The Sublime to the Ridiculous, is exactly that. Just froth by and large. To put the kind of effort I've put into my books and have folks rave about them like Rick, wow. A guy feels as though he can write well enough, but it's the readers who actually can tell him whether he in fact does. I feel good reading such reviews. It really does make one feel humble too, if it isn't too bizarre to be humble and ecstatic at the same time. 

The characters are believable and the story is entertaining. Thought provoking and pensive. To hear that from a man I'll never know, wow. Just wow.

And after all that attempt at humility, now I've got to be a shill for the book: David Gideon

Thanks for reading this, and thank you for all the support and encouragement you've given me.

The Green Monster

Being St. Patrick's Day, for obvious reasons I fished through my clothes this morning to find something green. I came across my 'Green Monster' t-shirt which I bought while at Fenway Park in Boston in 2016. And that leads me to what I want to say to you today: at times I'm slow on the uptake.

Fenway Park features a 37 foot wall in left field. It is painted green. As such, for years Red Sox fans have affectionately referred to it as the Green Monster. Are you with me so far? Good.

Anyway, sports teams tend to have mascots, and Boston is no different. Traipsing around the stands and on the field during the pre-game and between innings and what not was a costumed, human sized figure in a Red Sox uniform. He looked like a full sized Elmo or Cookie Monster, the Sesame Street characters. But rather than red or blue, he was made of up green shag carpet. And I could not figure out who or what he was supposed to be.

Until about the fourth inning, when it finally dawned on me. He was the Green Monster.

At times I really need things explained to me. At least it gave me green to wear on St. Patrick's Day though. 

What's Wrong With Great Grandpa James?

When me Grandpa Joe was young a trip into town was still an event. It was horse and buggy days in west central Illinois where he was raised, so hitching up the wagon was enough of a chore that you only did it for serious shopping excursions for serious business.

One such seriousness involved candy. Great Grandma Mary would, among her other and arguably more important purchases, buy candy for her kids as a treat. Her youngest, me Grandpa Joe, remembered those gifts fondly. Yet one aspect of it confused the then young boy.

Once home, his mother would offer the candy to everyone. The six children would take their share with delight. Great Grandpa James would, however, always decline the chance to delve into the sugary treats. Grandpa Joe recalled that he would think, "What's the matter with that old man, not taking candy?"

I think most of us thought that way as kids under such circumstances.

All Wrong

When me Pops was trying to get his drain snake repair business off the ground he was willing to go above and beyond the call of duty, to show customers he was serious and, hopefully, have good word spread around fishing for more. But you better not have taken advantage of that.

One former customer, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, called around 8:30 on a Saturday night asking if Dad could meet him at 8 Sunday morning for a machine repair. Pops reluctantly said yes. As I said, he was trying to get set up and wanted to show goodwill and effort.

Dad was at the old barn at 7:45. Cloyce wasn't there at 8.

Or 8:15.

Or 8:30.

When he still wasn't there by 8:45 Dad went home. At the time he liked to go to 9:30 Sunday Mass at old St. Dominic and needed time to get ready.

At 9 there was a loud knocking at the front door of the house. It was Cloyce, demanding, "Where you been Bill? I been waiting at your Shop for an hour!" 

Now, me Pops was generally mild mannered. But Cloyce went and said the wrong thing to the wrong man at the wrong time. The old man let him have it. 

And now you know why I said former customer a few lines back.

Good Customer

A fella appreciates honesty. It can renew faith in humanity.

It was a zoo yesterday at the old barn. It was particularly hectic between around 10 until Noon, where literally one customer after another (and three at a time twice) waited, all of them patiently to their credit, for service. I haven't had a run of business like that in quite a long while. 

One customer returned 15 minutes or so after I had done a quick fix on his snake. My first thought was a lament: "What's wrong? Did I not do the job right? Rats. I don't need this right now."

But that wasn't it. "Hey Cosgriff! I forgot to pay you," he said upon opening the Shop door.

I didn't realize he hadn't. It completely slipped my mind. Things were so hectic that as soon as I finished his job I had simply thanked him, and he me, and left without either of us thinking about the money aspect. All was totally incidental on both of us. 

I would likely had never given it a second thought. I'd have assumed he paid. He's a long time customer and completely trustworthy, as he proved by returning. 

Work was a mess yesterday. Yet that one bright spot made it all worthwhile. 

My Two Cents Worth

Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks? Why, I've become adept enough that I monitor my banking activity online, thank you very much. I've even learned to get comfortable with and use the ATM in the lobby of my bank. I make deposits and withdrawals all by my lonesome. It's what the bank wants, to not deal with Marty directly. Likely enough most folks don't want to deal with me. Beat you to the punch, Ron.

But technology is not without its issues, and I had one yesterday while banking. The first machine failed to work properly. It wasn't my fault, the bank employees assured me. They'd been having trouble with that particular ATM all day. Moving to the next machine, everything worked fine.

But in checking my bank account online this morning I noticed an unexpected deposit for, I am not making this up, two cents. Yes, two Lincoln coppers. Two entire pennies. The explanation was that it was an interest payment, an apology of sorts, for my trouble with that first ATM. 

So you ain't gotta worry about Marty's two cents no more. It's laying right in the bank. But if you upset me enough I may still give it to you anyway.

Rain, I Don't Mind

Yesterday I did something I've never done before. I let rain stop me from driving. Well, more specifically, I allowed a little voice to convince me that I should stop.

I was on my way home from a short road trip and could see the ominous clouds grow on the horizon. They meant business. Between they and I was a travel center. Pull into that truck stop, the voice said. Wait out the rain.

So I did as told. There was an IHOP, so breakfast called as well. Right as a country omelet was placed before me it commenced to pour outside, the proverbial sheets. Most likely flannel, the rain was so heavy. I ate, and knew that I had also avoided a terrible fate, or at least bad trouble.

How could I know that? How do you prove a negative? Nothing bad happened, really by definition. I was safe, fat, and happy watching the rain from my booth.

I knew because the cautionary voice told me. It pays to listen.

Clean Slate

Bush's Drug Store was pretty much right across the street from the house me Pops grew up in at 1104 Putnam in Detroit. The Cosgriff family frequented it for their medicines and whatever other sundries the store might have offered.

One day when in his teens me Pops and a friend were drifting around the old neighborhood, killing time on a winter afternoon. As the pair neared the store his buddy said to Dad, "Bet you can't hit Bush's sign with a snowball." Above the doorway, adorned with the Coca-Cola moniker, was sign which said 'Bush's Drugs', a typical way of advertising in the day. Actually, until yet I suppose.

"Sure I can," a supremely confident Teenage Pops replied. He scooped up a handful of snow, packed it tightly, and let it fly, striking the sign dead center.

It shattered into dozens of pieces. Pops assumed the sign was metal or wood, but it was slate. On that cold day, a well pitched snowball was bound to do irreparable harm.

'This is going to take weeks for me to pay for,' Teenage Pops thought woefully. But right was right, and the Cosgriffs and Mr. Bush were friends as well as patrons and druggists, so Dad went in to confess what he had done.

"I threw a snowball at your Coke sign and it shattered, Mr. Bush," he explained when the pharmacist came from a back room.

Mr. Bush offered a wry smile. "Well, young man, you picked a good day. They're coming out tomorrow with a new sign to replace it. Clean up the debris and we'll be fine."

The fog lifted, the angels sang, and Teenage Pops' Shop salary wouldn't be dunned. Life was good.

Learning From Me Pops

I just received my new business cards. I had the Shop address put on them. That should not surprise; the locals who actually come to see me need to know where its at while it doesn't really matter to the out of towners. And I learned from me Pops not to use me home address on such ephemera.

Me Pops was a smart man. But like so many of us he made his share of tactical errors, as he would himself confess. One was putting his home address, since it was also his business mailing address (mail never has come to the old barn, for whatever reason), on his first business cards. He found out quickly that that was a mistake.

Customers, and not the good and worthwhile ones, would hunt him down at horribly odd hours, 8:30 at night on a Saturday for example, to fix their cable or machine which had been broken for five days because they had an emergency job to handle. Dad, having a wife and bunch of rug rats to feed, clothe, and house, and also being concerned with someone else's emergency (who wants a backed up sewer at any time let alone late on a Saturday evening?) would generally open up and take care of business.

Yet that got old very fast. And, again, it was the less than stellar drain cleaners who demanded his time. Add this to the fact that a homeowner in dire straits would find another way out of their dilemma somehow, and he stopped such late night weekend nonsense. It would teach those special plumbers a valuable lesson too: get your drain snake fixed when it breaks, and not only when you would need it, potlikker.

March 8, 1987

I'm not sure how certain memories stay strong in my mind. Especially those which seem at the surface decidedly unremarkable.

March 8, 1987, was an unusually warm late winter Sunday here in Detroit. It hit 75 that day, and that may still be the record. I was with my son Frank, who was about 14 months old then. I don't remember at all where my wife and oldest son were, only that Frank and I were home alone most of the day.

My son and I ate hot dogs for lunch and went to a school park a block away. I held him in my lap and we swung gently on a swing; a couple times I put him snugly in the kids' size swing and pushed him a little less gently but never too hard. We climbed atop the small slide and slid down several times. Often Frank simply toddled around as I followed, picking up this or that for intense study before dropping it when interest waned.

The sun shone bright and, as I said, it was warm. And I've always remembered it as a nice day yet on a very deep level. If there's such a thing as sublimity, I learned it on March 8, 1987.

A Blind Squirrel Clock

Last week I had to rent a van for a trip to Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs) because of the amount of product I was getting. My new old van is good and reliable but would have surely buckled under the weight of what I was picking up. So it was to U-Haul I did go.

For whatever reason, the clock in the rental van was one hour and twenty eight minutes behind. Yep, 1:28 behind. Why that odd number, I don't know. But it bugged me enough that I had to try to set it straight.

At my stop for coffee around 3 AM, before returning to the highway, I proceeded to punch various buttons in various orders trying to find where to reset the clock. Lo and behold, the method paid off: I was able to set the clock to the right time. Thank you, thank you very much.

Yet the key thing is I didn't do any damage. I don't believe so anyway. Well, there was an explosion somewhere after I hit one of the buttons. But it was faint and far away - you could barely see the flash - so I don't think that was me.

So I figured out how to reset the van clock. Just don't ask me to do it again.

Spliced Cloyce

I don't think you need to know a lot about drain snake cables to understand this tale.

Back in the 60s and 70s there was this one plumber, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who was as the parlance says, so tight he squeeked. He had the first dollar he ever made. He'd squeeze a penny so hard Lincoln would yell. You get the picture.

One day old Cloyce came into the Shop to have me Pops repair his cable, which had broken. Again. When a snake cable breaks you can use a threaded metal piece called a splice to fix the break. In this particular case the cable was broken less than 18 inches from the end. Typically in such instances Pops would put on an end fitting rather than a splice, as splices too close to a cable end can cause problems. Trust me on that.

So the old man says to Cloyce, "I'll just put an end fitting on."

Cloyce was aghast. He was almost panic stricken at the thought. "Oh, no, Bill, splice it. I can't lose any length; that's my good cable.

Me Pops looked over the snake. He counted 18 splices in Cloyce's 'good' cable. The thing needed to be replaced, but Cloyce was too tight for that. So Dad spliced it and charged accordingly. 

The fact was that with what he had paid for over 18 splices (well, 19) he could have more than paid for a new cable. Probably two, honestly. Yet that's simply not how old Cloyce thought. He was a forest for the trees sort of guy.

The Voice

It happened again last night at curling. I had an old friend come up to say, "I heard that laugh, and I immediately thought, Marty's here!" Yes, with the exclamation point.

Remember last week? I had virtually the same thing happen, as I wrote here . While it's good to be known for something, I have to admit stuff like this makes a guy just a bit self conscious and vaguely paranoid. 'Someone told a joke, and I laughed. Was it that laugh?' 

"And you do have a distinct voice," my buddy Nick tells me. Yeah, distinct. I've been told I have a future with the Cartoon Network. Seriously. Right on TV, on a baseball pregame show: Tiger Pregame

Oh, I'm not going to stop. If it's that much a part of my personality, that ingrained after all these years, I probably couldn't if I wanted to. And it is good to be remembered. It leaves me interested for what may happen next Thursday..

Irish Attitude

Let's not have a sniffle, Let's have a bloody good cry, And always remember the longer you live, the sooner you'll bloody well die.

As I listen to Irish music while St. Patrick's Day approaches I'm struck by its piety, its spark, its sentimentality, and its vague fist raised at solemn things like, oh, death.

The above chorus is from Isn't It Grand, Boys, a traditional Irish ditty. Its most famous version is courtesy of The Clancy Brothers, and sort of either mocks, dares, or is matter of fact about death and dying. I love it. It's very, well, Irish. Here it is, folks, the song says. It is what it is. 

And it makes me proud of me Irish heritage. I love this time of year.

It Happened One Day

I remembered I was running low on coffee pods at the old barn when I happened to be at a Dollar General, which was fortuitous as they can be difficult to find. I happened to discover they sold coffee pods, so I happened to buy some. As they happened to be on sale, I happened to buy several boxes.

As it happened, one flavor I chose was 'donut shop blend'. But they didn't happen to say which donut shop. Yet as there happens to be this thing called the Internet where all of human knowledge appears to be kept in storage, most of it in very deep storage unless you happen to like cat videos or morally questionable entertainment, I decided to find out which donut shop blend Dollar General's happened to be.

It happens to be from Fred and Mary's donut shop and troll doll emporium in South Witchita, Kansas. Closed Mondays. You're welcome.

A funny thing happened on the way to the classroom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I returned after another twenty minutes. Good times.

Slight Comfort

I was able to start this week as so many people wish they could: an early Monday dentist appointment. Don't harbor any ill will towards me. Jealousy is so ugly.

It was simply to have my teeth cleaned, though. No needles or extractions or anything uncomfortable. Indeed the dental hygienist complimented me when the procedure was about halfway finished. "Are you doing okay, Mr. Cosgriff?"

"Mphh uhhh hmm uh huh," I answered. I mean, she had a small mirror, a pick of some sort, a water jet and a water vacuum in my mouth.

"Good, good," she responded. And then, as if to reassure me, "And you're not bleeding at all."

That was good news, considering that I had no expectations of bloodshed from a mere cleaning. But I made it a point to be a particularly cooperative patient after that.

The Prodigal Father

Most of us are familiar with the parable of the Prodigal Son. I was introduced to it in a new way through the book Death on a Friday Afternoon. It struck me deep, and that at the risk of understatement quite frankly.

We know that the father saw the returning, humbled, repentant son and ran out to greet him while he was still far off. But did the father just happen to see the young man returning that day? Did he notice him as he passed an open window or while he toiled in his fields? No; he didn't stumble upon his son's return. He spent day after day standing on the portico of his home, scanning the horizon for the lad's return, hoping, wishing, pining for his son's safe and soon coming back home. It wasn't an accident. The father actively sought his progeny. 

Then he ran - ran - out to greet him. Dad didn't sit on a throne and demand the son slink all the way back to him, prostrate and ashamed (although the boy was surely properly ashamed) and beg for forgiveness (although the young man, properly as well, expected he should do that). The father saw his son, perhaps as a spot on the horizon which gradually took human, family form, and, recognizing him after all that time, ran out to him.

So God the Father will do for us. He won't demand you inch forward and beg. When he sees your repentance, He will run to you in welcome. Such is His love for us. He will look past all the terrible things we've done and throw His arms around us. We will have been found by the One who constantly scans the horizon for all of His lost sheep.