Polka Mass? Really?

I boycotted my Church today.

Hey, now, I still fulfilled my Sunday obligation; Ol' Marty won't not do that. But I did go to a different Church rather than my parish sanctuary. I simply could not go there this week.

You see, they were having a Polka Mass, and I don't care how many reassurances I get about it being all right, it just doesn't feel right to me. I'm not even saying that it's wrong. It's merely beyond my comfort zone. But I am willing to entertain the argument that it's disrespectful.

Now, I like to polka, as ironic as that may sound to those who know how I brag about my Irish heritage. At weddings, I'm one of the first ones on the floor when the accordion sounds. But polka music in Church? I feel like we should be swaying in tune and clanking beer steins rather than singing hymns to the polka beat.

Sorry, folks, but singing a joyful noise just doesn't cut it in defense of such folly. There are too many joyful hymns more in (ahem) tune with worship.

I'd rather go fast food

Buca di Beppo. The name sounds like a rejected moniker for a long forgotten Marx brother. Beppo Marx; think about it. In reality, it's the name of the restaurant I ate in last night with a group of friends. You know, one of those different things you try just to do something different. The trouble is, I hate different. I don't want to try new things.

The food is served, I think they call it family style, where you order large dishes and share them. It's supposed to be fun. But what's the fun of dinner being ordered by committee? If I had wanted that, I'd have voted for Obama and let him and Congress tell me what to eat like they want to tell me everything else that I need these days.

Yet as with acts of Congress, it took an insane amount of time to get anything done. It took forever to order because everyone had to debate which salad, which sides, which entree, and which style of plates and silverware to use. All right, maybe not that last part, but still. I don't want to eat what the person next to me wants, I want to eat what I want when I'm in a restaurant. This is America, by gum, and I can order my own food. If I want to have dinner family style I'll do the obvious thing and stay at home with my family for dinner. Sure, I may then have to eat what my wife sets in front of me, but hey, at least it came from my own larder. She cooks better than some 19 year old working their way through college anyway.

Then the food finally comes and everyone gets their first helping. After another fifteen minutes, that is. Passing dishes about among ten people squeezed around a tiny restaurant table is more confusing and frustrating than getting home to the suburbs during rush hour. You need an air traffic controller to keep the flying dishes in order. And the food isn't cold by the time you finally get to eat, oh no, sure. Then, since it's served the way it is, there's always those last two pieces of chicken which everyone is being too kind to take in case someone else may want one, when the truth is everyone at the table wants one because they haven't had enough to eat. The remaining veggies remain alone, pleading for attention, but who wants them? Family style without the family style portions, that's what it is. At home, where the real family style is, there's always enough for everyone.

I think that the next time I'm invited to such a place, I'll politely decline and have a beer and burger at home. The drink will be cold, the food hot, and all the atmosphere I need will be supplied by the ball game on the tube. Any new experience will be limited to who the Tigers play next. That's about all the diversity I care for.

I'm so witty, o so witty

My wife puts up a with a lot from me. With my, shall I say, unusual sense of humor, she has to. Or she'd just kill me.

How do I annoy thee? Let me count two ways.

We were driving up north to our place in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula when I began singing Johnny Horton's classic Sink the Bismarck, which he wrote for the movie about the Allied pursuit of that famous German battleship from World War II. I sang the first two verses along with the refrain and then stopped, the third verse having slipped my mind.

After a couple of miles she asked, "Well?"

I, having no idea what she was asking about by then, answered, "Well what?"

"Aren't you going to finish the song?"

"Um, I can't. I forgot the third verse," I replied apologetically.

"But I want to know what happened!" she demanded.

"They sank the Bismarck!" I responded incredulously.

My cheek still hurts from the smack it received.

On another occasion, we were at home at the dinner table eating fish patties. For some reason she had the box in her hand, and she read to me, "Do you know that one of these patties has 150 calories?"

"Really?" I asked. "Which one?"

So now you why Groton's is tattoed on my forehead.

Old Charley Hannah

Old Charley Hannah wasn't a bad sort of fellow. I always fancied he thought himself a storyteller. He was more a teller of tall tales, quite frankly, and at the heart of it I think he just loved to hear himself talk. That lead to certain lapses in continuity when he spoke.

He was in the Old Barn one day years ago while Dad was off somewhere. As I worked on his machine and my brother worked nearby Charley remarked, "I bet I'm about as old as your dad."

"Could be, Mr. Hannah," I replied. "Pops was born in 1936."

Old Charley began wistfully, "Nineteen thutty six,' and I felt a story was coming on. He continued, "I was fidteen years old in 1936..."

I don't remember the tale. I spent the whole time thinking, 'But, you said you were Dad's age, but now were 15 when he was born, and that's not that close, so how could you, why would you think...'

About that time Charley finished the story and broke into a laugh. I read the signal and laughed too. But I don't recall a thing about what he told. I only remember my confusion.

A strange border crossing

A couple of weeks ago I met an old curling friend for golf. After a short discussion we decided to play in Canada. I crossed over the border one Sunday, we played 18 holes, went to a pub and grub for a couple pints and some, well, grub, decided to hit the links again soon, and parted ways.
It was next, in my return to these United States, that the story became in my mind kinda weird.
I stopped at the guard booth and dutifully handed the attendant my enhanced license. "Citizenship?" he asked brusquely.
You just swiped my license, so you know the answer to that, I thought brusquely myself. But I obediently answered, "U.S."
"Purposely of your trip?"
"I was golfing with a Canadian curling friend."
The man turned to look at me and asked, I thought rather harshly, "What have you got against golf in the United States?"
"N, nothing," I heard myself stammer. "We just decided to golf in Canada."
He began staring me down, and I have to admit I was starting to feel intimidated, "Why would you decide that?"
"Well, no big reason. It seemed cheaper for me cross the border and pay in Canadian dollars, that's all."
"So what's your problem with US dollars?" continued the interrogation.
I wasn't sure how to answer that, as I love US dollars as much as anybody. So much so that I get paid in them. I responded meekly, "It just seemed cheaper."
The guard harrumphed, and turned to look at his monitor. "And how did you meet this 'curling friend'?" I swear you could see the quote marks in the air.
I really wasn't sure how to answer that; from his tone it didn't appear as though there was a right answer. "Uh, well, curling?" It even sounded to me like I responded with the lilt of a question. That's not gonna help here, I thought with no small fear.
He asked, "Do you have your clubs with you?"
"Yes. In the back of my van." I stupidly indicated where the back of my van was with a twist of my head. I told you I was golfing; why wouldn't I bring my clubs home?
"What kind are they?" he demanded.
I answered incredulously, "Clevelands." Where's he going with this?
The guard turned again to me, handed me back my license, smiled broadly and said in the happiest tone, "Good choice. Have a nice day!"
I don't know about you, but it struck me a rather bizarre return interview.

The curmudgeon in Marty: don't walk in the middle of the road!

I wish I owned the roads as much as a lot of pedestrians seem to think they do. I am sick and tired of folks walking in the middle of the road, only begrudgingly giving way to vehicular traffic as it approaches. Approaches slowly, mind you, because if Heaven forbid you hit them it's on you, despite the fact that they're where they should not be.

The lack of consideration for drivers as well as their own safety is appalling. This morning two people were blocking the farthest right driving lane walking towards me on a main artery four lanes wide, while the sidewalks alongside had no obstructions whatsoever. I could cut them slack if they were in the curb lane and the walks overrun with snow or debris or what have you, but they were clear and easy to step along. Why were two idiots in the road?

It's actually worse on side streets. I've come along high schoolers walking five abreast in the middle of the road, blocking it completely. Before you dismiss this as simply younger folks not thinking, I've seen it with adults all too often. Then, as I said, they'll only grudgingly part enough for your car, and I mean only just enough for your car to pass by, sneering at you as you do. They act as though you're the one intruding on their space.

I've been offered explanations but, quite frankly, none pan out. A guy told me it was to keep off the walks for safety: someone might run out from between houses and grab or rob them. Sorry, my friends, that's just grasping for justification. Why couldn't someone run from a crouch between cars and get you? Perhaps the walks aren't clear? But we've addressed that: it doesn't wash, either.

The short story is that it's arrogance. They walk in the street because they can, and it's a way of showing they own you. If you have a better explanation, I'm all ears. Until then, I hold that they ought to smacked upside the head and told to be considerate of how the road was intended to be used.

Real love

We are often told that we are expected to love others unconditionally. It is a good and charitable approach to our relationships with God and man. But what does it really mean? How are we expected to use such a doctrine in our daily lives?

For starters, it surely means that we are to love everyone without reservation. We are called to love everyone as though they were ourselves, to paraphrase a great moral teacher. It is a difficult ideal; loving our enemies is not easy, and sometimes loving our friends and family is a challenge as well. Still, we are expected to overcome this obstacle, and find a way to open our hearts to all.

But there is a great misunderstanding to unconditional love, an error in its application which is at least arguably worse than failing to love everyone around us. Many people believe that unconditional love means loving others up to and including their faults. Indeed, it strikes me that we are sometimes expected to embrace those faults.

This cannot be a good and true interpretation of the standard. It cannot be a useful approach towards dealing with others. We can accept that we must love racists and sexists and criminals; but to love their faults? This is insanity on its face. Do we not want to see people become better people? Do we not want to see our children grow into mature adults? Then we should be instructing and cajoling and beseeching those around us, as they should towards us, to do better than they do, and to be better than they are.

When our children become drug addicts or alcoholics, we do what we can to change them. When our neighbors rob and injure others, we enforce laws to stop them. We can and should still love them, but that does not mean we are obliged to tolerate them.

It is more correct to say that unconditional love calls us to love those around us despite their faults. Real love does not embrace error. It understands sins and errors as a part of us which ought to be altered, and wants to see us move away from the lesser aspects of our being and into better men, women, and children. If it does not want that, it is not love. It is something which facilitates bad behavior; it is a cancer of character.