In The Books

Well, another curling season is in the books. We managed a 10-8 win in the five-six game, which means we officially finished fifth. I've done worse.

Our vice Mark, the man who throws third out of four players, saved our bacon. He made two great hits which removed opposition scoring stones and left us scoring instead, and drew to the very button, the very center of the circular target curlers call the house, when that was all we had. I mean, if he's an inch short it could have changed the outcome. If curling had game rocks like football has game balls, he'd get it.

We caught some breaks too, stealing eight straight points (you're said to have 'stolen' points when you score without 'hammer', the last rock of an end) after giving up five in the first end (an end is sort of like a baseball inning, except teams alternate throwing stones rather than all bat/field at once). It's hard to win when they hang a five on you right off, but we figured it out. 

The thing, yesterday was a very rough day at work. Indeed this entire week is daunting. I hardly wanted to play last night. But I'm glad I did. The win makes work just a bit easier to handle.

Showing my age

April is about my favorite month. Baseball begins, and the second weekend brings the Masters golf tournament.  Life is good.

Interestingly, although I hardly need another reminder of how old I am, I read earlier this week that among the major sports baseball fans average being 57 years old. The only sport with a higher average fan age is golf at 63.

Here I am at 64 and those are the two sports I watch the most.

And then I gain another year later this month, turning 65 the 22nd. Oh well.

But why let all that get you down? Baseball, golf, and my birthday: all in April. I can't think of a reason not to love the most excellent fourth month of the year. 

Pilate's World

This past weekend Catholics had the Long Gospel, a standard practice on Palm Sunday where the Passion of Christ is gone over in detail. One part of that Gospel has always stood out to me. When Pontius Pilate asked Jesus what his purpose was Christ answered, "I came to testify to the truth." Pilate responded with disdain, "What is truth?" This is exactly what the world says when confronted with Jesus, or with any idea of Truth.

Pilate represents the World, which wants no truth. Christ more than represents truth but is rather Truth Itself. And that is why the world rejects him.

The World wants to do what it wants to do and does not want to have to justify itself.  Christ challenges that: certain things are what they are no matter what you think (or want to think). So the World mocks Him: What is Truth?

Save your tongue if your first reaction is to ask, who's truth? That's only childish gainsaying. The question is not and never can be that. The real question, to turn it back on you, World, is, again, What is Truth? What is really real, and what is really false? What do we do with what knowledge the answers to those questions give us?

If you aren't seeking real, honest truth, you're playing to vanity, quite frankly. If you ask, like Pilate, what is truth, you mock and deny truth. Do so if you wish. But the price will be dear if you choose such, as the beginning of all the vice in human history can be seen in that small exchange between God and the World. "I came to testify; What is Truth?" Will you seek Truth, or will you deny it? There is nothing else.

Beefy Don't Get Rattled

I introduced you to my old friend Beefy awhile back. He was a great guy, and in a quiet, unruffled way. While our old buddy Cloyce would indeed upset him (see here: Cloyce attracts deer), by and large Beef was happy watching the world go by.

Beefy liked his drink. He had purchased a bottle of vodka on his way home from work one day, and then stopped at a favored watering hole for a couple beers. By his own admission, he was feeling it a bit as he left the bar an hour or two later.

He was driving down the freeway when he noticed the smell of something burning. That's when he saw tiny flames licking up around the edges of the hood of his car. It turns out a pair of frayed wires had caused a fire. Beefy steered the car well onto a fortunately wide shoulder which happened to be at that spot of the highway. When he had stopped, he jumped out of the car, not forgetting his precious bottle of liquor. 

Beefy climbed up the berm at the roadside and sat far enough away from the car, by then engulfed in flames, to be safe, and began to ease his pain by uncorking the vodka and taking a nip. Soon enough he took another draw at the bottle and then a third, morosely watching his car incinerate itself.

Naturally enough, the fire drew the attention of a Michigan state trooper. The officer pulled up (well behind the flaming hulk of metal of course) and climbed up to where Beefy sat. "That your car?' the cop demanded.

"Yep," Beefy affirmed, with another shot of vodka.

"Well, would you like me to call the fire department?" the trooper asked, sarcastically.

After another drink Beefy simply answered, "If you want to."

That's it. That's the story. Beefy lost a car yet saved his vodka.

Matters of the Heart

The things you see on the road.

Driving along Interstate 70 yesterday in Indiana I saw a billboard with an advertisement for a local hospital. It had two doctors pictured on it, above whom it was displayed in big, proud letters: Highly Skilled Heart Surgeons.

O-kay. You're advertising as quite the accomplishment something I would take as a given, that is, that your heart surgeons are very good at what they do. Am I to assume that, until this most recent advertising campaign, that they lacked something, something you're proud to announce they have overcome?

Would I want, should the need for anyone to handle my thumping gizzard arise, less able heart surgeons to hold my life in their hands? Are there really hospitals out there with less than stellar doctors who might give me a price break on such important matters? Do I want to know the answer to that?

No! I'm going to Indiana so that the Highly Skilled Heart Surgeons can take care of me. Marty is sold on their on oddly reassuring billboard.

Heavenly Help

We Catholics know that when you can't find something you pray to St. Anthony for help. I did that just yesterday in fact and promptly found what I had misplaced. It truly works.

Several years ago one my aunts, a sister of me Mom's (that's typical of how someone becomes your aunt) lost something important. Mom's side of the family is overwhelmingly Protestant whereas Mom converted to Catholicism after she married me Pops. That's important to know only because you won't appreciate the story otherwise.

Mom suggested her sister pray to St. Anthony. In fact my aunt's exact prayer was, "St. Anthony, I don't know you but my sister does. Please help me find what I'm looking for." Lo and behold, she found it in the next few minutes.

Few things are more powerful than sincere prayer, eh? It knows no denomination.

Whatabouters

Whatabouters. I hate them.

You do too I bet. I'm talking (ahem) about those people who object to everything. No choice, no option, is legitimate or proper. Yet they object to any and all suggestions put forth.

I've been on my Parish Council at Church, involved in politics, social clubs, kids sports and what have you and they all have whatabouters. Worse, whatabouters seem to be the most common attendees at meetings for any such organizations. I guess they have nothing better to do.

If A is presented, what about B? If B, have you thought about C? They then commence to run you through the entire alphabet and more of objections. But they won't themselves to commit to anything. Something must be done, but all ideas are all wrong.

Whatabouters. I hate them. They're just a bunch of time wasters.