Ticket, passport, visa, please.
Some time ago, the folks who waste their valuable time reading this bilge may remember I remarked, "One more (modern convenience) and I'm headed straight back to the 12th century." ["Now Conveniently in Rear Rows!" 11 October 2010] Well, one more modern convenience showed up, so I'm out of here!
(I will, however, continue to add titles to the "Works" list as they are published.)
31 December 2010: Feast of St. Zoticus. Vandals, Alans, and Suebians cross Rhine invading Gaul 406 AD; James I of Aragon enters Palma reconquering Majorca 1229; Americans defeated Battle of Quebec 1775; Victoria chooses Ottawa as Canadian capital 1857; Czechoslovakia divides into Czech Republic and Slovakia 1992.
IT'S HERE! IT'S HERE AT LAST!
IT'S HERE! IT'S HERE AT LAST!
What? Christmas?
No, we're only half-past Advent. Contrary to popular belief in the pagan world, the Twelve Days of Christmas trail December 24th like a flag.
No, what's here is the Kindle version of Frans G. Bengtsson's The Long Ships. I just downloaded my copy at oh-dark-thirty.
So what?
Bengtsson's Viking tale, written during War World II, is two incompatible things (at least to those ignorant of history and who don't watch people)--good history and human comedy.
Set around the year 1,000 AD, it tells the story of Red Orm, a Norse businessman of the period. It begins with a attempted acquisition of livestock shares (in this case, sheep) by the captain and crew of a passing vacation cruise--remember, to go "aviking," is rather like the old joke "What does an Irishman do for a vacation?--He sits on someone else's stoop." These guys go on vacation each summer and steal someone else's sheep (and anything else they can physically lift). Orm declines the leveraged offer and, in doing so, receives a smack on the forehead with an ax. Happily for him and the long ship's captain, the the ax was oriented 90 degrees to it's most efficient operating position and Orm only ends up with a large bruise and the captain ends up with a rower to replace the one who was killed during negotiations.
Thus begins a theme that runs throughout the book--Orm has luck--battle luck, woman luck, weather luck (though he never seems to hit the lottery). And, Oy! Does he need it! Only a few of the things he has to put up with are being a galley slave down in Islamic Spain, having to beat feet or oars (I suppose) ahead of an irate caliph--something about the small matter of the theft of a ship, a large economy-sized Christian bell, and forgetting to give two weeks notice--enjoying his own vacation helping to shake down England (the whole country, mind you), converting to Christianity (I know the feeling, there's a woman involved in his case also), a search for his long lost brother's hoard of gold while avoiding a horde of unfriendly natives (are there any other kind in this type of story?), and finally having to clean up after the very worst missionary in Christendom.
Bengtsson had the refreshing ability to deliver hilarity with a perfectly straight face--you're halfway in before you realize just how funny the situation is (as an example, there is the heart-warming trial-by-combat involving a crone, a pair of purloined virgins, their future husbands, and a skinflint uncle).
Another joy of The Long Ships is that the history checks out. It is an excellent display of Europe in the run-up to the Second Coming expected on the dawning of 1,000 AD (after all, everybody knows the Lord always works in round numbers). It gives a good picture of the three-way-collision of Christianity, Islam, and Norse paganism and the heroes and knaves to be found in every belief system. Medieval history without pain and, best of all, you can let your teen read it--if they can get it away from you.
(Note to FTC: Bought it myself, oh guardians of confusion, needless expense, and red tape.)
15 December 2010: Feast of St. Urbitius. Belisarius defeats Vandals in Battle of Ticameron 533 AD, U.S. Bill of Rights ratified by Virginia 1791, Battle of Nashville 1864, 21st Amendment to U.S. Constitution takes effect--"The bar is open, boys."--1933, Gemini 6A and Gemini 7 make first manned space rendezvous 1965.
When the chips are down...
Thanksgiving is safely past and I pretty much survived...I think. *quick non-T.S.A. pat-down* Yeah, pretty much still in existence. Although, the day before Thanksgiving, I was seriously considering alternatives to this state.
This year, we decided to buy the Thanksgiving dinner pre-built. A couple of the local supermarkets offered already cooked Turkeys, side dishes, and pies for a reasonable price, and this looked like the way to cut down on combat around the dinner table. Until recently, rather than looking like Norman Rockwell's version of Thanksgiving, ours tended to have more in common with discussions between, oh, say Julius Caesar and Vercingetorix at Alesia? (I would have said Lee and Grant, but our scrums weren't nearly so Civil.) We figured out that most of the fighting took place because everyone was exhausted by dinnertime Thursday afternoon. The wife and number one daughter had worked until late at the supermarket the night before (when you work in the service industry, there is no such thing as a holiday--those are for your betters who work weekdays, 9-5). Then everybody'd hit the floor early so as to get the cooking done for that photo op banquet table that only we would see. By the time dinner was ready, we really shouldn't have been allowed anything sharper than a bowling ball with which to carve the turkey.
After about fifteen years of this stupidity, the penny finally dropped. Why did Thanksgiving have to be on Thursday? Why not Friday? It's not like it's a religious festival that's pegged to one particular day. If you really are thankful, I suspect the Lord will probably take your "thank you" call on Friday. Besides, by celebrating on Friday, both ladies were more likely to be off from work and they could recuperate from what they un-laughingly referred to as "hell week" by sleeping-in Thursday.
Anyway, back to my bid for nonexistence. I'm at the store Wednesday morning to pick up the Thanksgiving dinner when I think of something. This grocery chain carries my favorite salty snack, Wise potato chips (Dr. Pepper and Wise BBQ chips, breakfast of champions--it's a Southern thing). Why not pick up a bag or fifteen? I normally shop at the store at which the ladies of the house work, so I wasn't sure where the chip aisle was located. I see a stocker adding a competitor's brand on a display in front of the checkout aisles. I look around and notice he's the only employee in sight aside for the red-shirted cashiers. I go over and ask, "Excuse me, could you tell me where the Wise potato chips are located, please?" He straightens up and blinks at me. His accent is purest Caribbean as he replies, "I beg your pardon?" Okay, I probably said it too fast and most likely mumbled. "Could you tell me where to find the Wise potato chips, please?" As he stares at me, my eye travels over his left pocket on which is emblazoned, "Frito-Lay." As my mind goes from All Ahead Two-Thirds directly to All Astern Full, I notice that his shirt's red doesn't exactly match the store personnel's red. He looks at me oddly and points down the main aisle. "Uh, chips are down on sixteen." My first thought is to reach inside my mouth, grab my butt from the inside, and jerk hard in hopes that I can cause myself to pop out of existence on this particular plane. Instead, I thank him profusely, assure him that Lay's is my number one choice when Wise aren't available (true), and beat feet out of sight. After adding two bags Wise chips to my cart (Regular and BBQ) I went back up to check out, taking care not to pass the gentleman working on his display. I'd like to take this occasion to tell Frito-Lay that they have a very nice, extremely patient, and mega-forgiving gentleman stocking shelves for them.
Note to FTC: Bought the Wise chips myself. Frito-Lay probably isn't about to send me anything now.
28 November 2010: First Sunday of Advent. Feast of St. Andrew Trong. Council of Clermont launches First Crusade 1095, Magellan sails into Pacific from Atlantic 1520, Beethoven premiers Piano Concerto No. 5 in E-flat major 1811, Louis b. Mayer opens his first movie theater 1907, Tehran Conference 1943, Mariner 4 lifts off for Mars 1964.
This year, we decided to buy the Thanksgiving dinner pre-built. A couple of the local supermarkets offered already cooked Turkeys, side dishes, and pies for a reasonable price, and this looked like the way to cut down on combat around the dinner table. Until recently, rather than looking like Norman Rockwell's version of Thanksgiving, ours tended to have more in common with discussions between, oh, say Julius Caesar and Vercingetorix at Alesia? (I would have said Lee and Grant, but our scrums weren't nearly so Civil.) We figured out that most of the fighting took place because everyone was exhausted by dinnertime Thursday afternoon. The wife and number one daughter had worked until late at the supermarket the night before (when you work in the service industry, there is no such thing as a holiday--those are for your betters who work weekdays, 9-5). Then everybody'd hit the floor early so as to get the cooking done for that photo op banquet table that only we would see. By the time dinner was ready, we really shouldn't have been allowed anything sharper than a bowling ball with which to carve the turkey.
After about fifteen years of this stupidity, the penny finally dropped. Why did Thanksgiving have to be on Thursday? Why not Friday? It's not like it's a religious festival that's pegged to one particular day. If you really are thankful, I suspect the Lord will probably take your "thank you" call on Friday. Besides, by celebrating on Friday, both ladies were more likely to be off from work and they could recuperate from what they un-laughingly referred to as "hell week" by sleeping-in Thursday.
Anyway, back to my bid for nonexistence. I'm at the store Wednesday morning to pick up the Thanksgiving dinner when I think of something. This grocery chain carries my favorite salty snack, Wise potato chips (Dr. Pepper and Wise BBQ chips, breakfast of champions--it's a Southern thing). Why not pick up a bag or fifteen? I normally shop at the store at which the ladies of the house work, so I wasn't sure where the chip aisle was located. I see a stocker adding a competitor's brand on a display in front of the checkout aisles. I look around and notice he's the only employee in sight aside for the red-shirted cashiers. I go over and ask, "Excuse me, could you tell me where the Wise potato chips are located, please?" He straightens up and blinks at me. His accent is purest Caribbean as he replies, "I beg your pardon?" Okay, I probably said it too fast and most likely mumbled. "Could you tell me where to find the Wise potato chips, please?" As he stares at me, my eye travels over his left pocket on which is emblazoned, "Frito-Lay." As my mind goes from All Ahead Two-Thirds directly to All Astern Full, I notice that his shirt's red doesn't exactly match the store personnel's red. He looks at me oddly and points down the main aisle. "Uh, chips are down on sixteen." My first thought is to reach inside my mouth, grab my butt from the inside, and jerk hard in hopes that I can cause myself to pop out of existence on this particular plane. Instead, I thank him profusely, assure him that Lay's is my number one choice when Wise aren't available (true), and beat feet out of sight. After adding two bags Wise chips to my cart (Regular and BBQ) I went back up to check out, taking care not to pass the gentleman working on his display. I'd like to take this occasion to tell Frito-Lay that they have a very nice, extremely patient, and mega-forgiving gentleman stocking shelves for them.
Note to FTC: Bought the Wise chips myself. Frito-Lay probably isn't about to send me anything now.
28 November 2010: First Sunday of Advent. Feast of St. Andrew Trong. Council of Clermont launches First Crusade 1095, Magellan sails into Pacific from Atlantic 1520, Beethoven premiers Piano Concerto No. 5 in E-flat major 1811, Louis b. Mayer opens his first movie theater 1907, Tehran Conference 1943, Mariner 4 lifts off for Mars 1964.
"Dem funeral bells is breakin' up that old gang of mine."
One begins to suspect something temporal is afoot when one realizes that they know far more dead people than living.
Back in the garden, if I remember correctly, besides the Tree of Knowledge, there was also the Tree of Life. This one's fruit would grant eternal life (one wonders if this might be where the Norse picked up the idea of the apples that kept their gods young). If the first juvenile delinquents, (look, they couldn't have been more than a few months old--the Bible says nothing about either acne or teen-age angst) had gotten to that one, man's three score and ten would have been a lot longer. Me, I don't think I could stand the boredom.
With mortality, comes the crap-shoot, lottery, number coming up on the wheel, or draw of the card (notice how all of these seem to have something to do with losing money?) which determines check-out time. For some reporting in comes sooner than one would hope for (being more or less a believer in Christian charity, I won't discuss the other group). One who's stay was cut shorter than some of us would wish was Charley McDowell.
Charles Rice McDowell, Jr. managed something of a miracle in his time, he managed to be both a journalist AND a gentleman. He wrote for the Richmond Times-Dispatch (known to all of us who love it as the "Times-Disreputable"). I'm told that his political column was avidly read. Looking at an example--the way he wrote about the effect on people's lives of the wait for Richard Nixon's resignation, I can well see why. Column of 9 August 1974. Rather than speaking to its meaning for history or the interests of the political class and other elites as did most of his colleagues , he wrote about the people.
This view of the commonplace is what I remember most about him. I first met him while watching "Washington Week in Review" on the PBS station in DC, WETA. My wife and I watched that show right after "Wall Street Week with Louis Rukeyser." Neither of us had any money and we certainly weren't "movers and shakers" (rather, we tended to be the "moved and shaken"), but here was intelligent TV before the term "spin" had been invented.
Back in those days (1975-1990) PBS attempted to attract people of all stripes to their viewership by providing a forum for Left, Right, and the folks in the middle caught in the crossfire. "Washington Week in Review" was a round table discussion show in which the moderator, Paul Duke, (who displayed no bias) and four (I think) journalists talked about the week's happenings inside the beltway. Usually there was a hard Leftist, an equally hard Rightist, and a utility player who sided with one or the other. Sitting on the moderator's physical left was Charley McDowell. He tended to be the voice of Everyman, neither far Left nor far Right. In fact, he seemed to pretty much hug the center of the road. This, along with his Shenandoah accent (hey, you gotta like someone who sounds like you among all those TV voices that say, "Hi, I'm from nowhere."), made him a favorite with the wife and me.
Here's the paper's writeup about him: Charley McDowell.
Now, he's gone, at least from around these parts. But, maybe in a couple of years we'll get to see him again. I suspect (and fervently hope) the Lord don't mind the sweet tones of a Shenandoah accent.
7 November 2010: Feast of St. Ernest. Ensisheim Meteorite - first dated impact - hits wheat field in Alsace 1492, Royal Governor of Virginia offers emancipation to slaves who fight for British 1775, brigantine Mary Celeste sails from New York 1872, Jesus Garcia saves Nacozaride de Garcia in Sonora from burning dynamite train 1907, Suez Crisis 1956.
Back in the garden, if I remember correctly, besides the Tree of Knowledge, there was also the Tree of Life. This one's fruit would grant eternal life (one wonders if this might be where the Norse picked up the idea of the apples that kept their gods young). If the first juvenile delinquents, (look, they couldn't have been more than a few months old--the Bible says nothing about either acne or teen-age angst) had gotten to that one, man's three score and ten would have been a lot longer. Me, I don't think I could stand the boredom.
With mortality, comes the crap-shoot, lottery, number coming up on the wheel, or draw of the card (notice how all of these seem to have something to do with losing money?) which determines check-out time. For some reporting in comes sooner than one would hope for (being more or less a believer in Christian charity, I won't discuss the other group). One who's stay was cut shorter than some of us would wish was Charley McDowell.
Charles Rice McDowell, Jr. managed something of a miracle in his time, he managed to be both a journalist AND a gentleman. He wrote for the Richmond Times-Dispatch (known to all of us who love it as the "Times-Disreputable"). I'm told that his political column was avidly read. Looking at an example--the way he wrote about the effect on people's lives of the wait for Richard Nixon's resignation, I can well see why. Column of 9 August 1974. Rather than speaking to its meaning for history or the interests of the political class and other elites as did most of his colleagues , he wrote about the people.
This view of the commonplace is what I remember most about him. I first met him while watching "Washington Week in Review" on the PBS station in DC, WETA. My wife and I watched that show right after "Wall Street Week with Louis Rukeyser." Neither of us had any money and we certainly weren't "movers and shakers" (rather, we tended to be the "moved and shaken"), but here was intelligent TV before the term "spin" had been invented.
Back in those days (1975-1990) PBS attempted to attract people of all stripes to their viewership by providing a forum for Left, Right, and the folks in the middle caught in the crossfire. "Washington Week in Review" was a round table discussion show in which the moderator, Paul Duke, (who displayed no bias) and four (I think) journalists talked about the week's happenings inside the beltway. Usually there was a hard Leftist, an equally hard Rightist, and a utility player who sided with one or the other. Sitting on the moderator's physical left was Charley McDowell. He tended to be the voice of Everyman, neither far Left nor far Right. In fact, he seemed to pretty much hug the center of the road. This, along with his Shenandoah accent (hey, you gotta like someone who sounds like you among all those TV voices that say, "Hi, I'm from nowhere."), made him a favorite with the wife and me.
Here's the paper's writeup about him: Charley McDowell.
Now, he's gone, at least from around these parts. But, maybe in a couple of years we'll get to see him again. I suspect (and fervently hope) the Lord don't mind the sweet tones of a Shenandoah accent.
7 November 2010: Feast of St. Ernest. Ensisheim Meteorite - first dated impact - hits wheat field in Alsace 1492, Royal Governor of Virginia offers emancipation to slaves who fight for British 1775, brigantine Mary Celeste sails from New York 1872, Jesus Garcia saves Nacozaride de Garcia in Sonora from burning dynamite train 1907, Suez Crisis 1956.
A Judge's Sense and the Living-Impaired.
I was perusing the bulletin board down at the senior center the other day--I like to go there just to heckle the young squirts--and was looking at the various athletics scheduled: Wii bowling, line dancing (well, line shuffling anyway), contact sports like cards and pool, water aerobics (proof that bikinis can still look good--if you don't believe me, take your glasses off and try it again), etc. The one sport that appeared to be missing was senior division car jumping. Which leads to a Kelly story...
Kelly, a guy I worked for many moons ago, put himself through art school working as an undertaker in Virginia's Blue Ridge Mountains. One pleasant Indian summer afternoon, he was out in the driveway of the funeral home washing one of the hearses when he almost became one of the dearly departed. He had just walked under the carport to grab a swig of Dr. Pepper when he heard a car engine rev to light-speed and a loud thump. He looked up to see a Chevy Corvair coming down the hill and across the lawn from the Kroger's parking lot above at a high rate of speed (the fact of a Corvair moving fast proves it was downhill). Kelly did his best second base slide out of the way and the car crashed into the side of the funeral home beneath the carport's canopy.
When he opened the door, he found the driver, a late-middle-aged lady (the French, being the French, have a much more female-friendly phrase: "Une femme d'un certain age...") to be shaken--not stirred--but otherwise unharmed. It seems the heel of one of her stylish shoes became lodged against the accelerator and the Corvair fulfilled Ralph Nader's title, Unsafe at Any Speed.
While the repair work was being done to the funeral home, the owner decided an armor upgrade was in order figuring this might not be the last occasion of a prospective customer attempting to deliver themselves from the supermarket parking lot. So, a three foot-high brick wall was added to the outside edge of the carport.
Kelly was shoveling snow out front when he heard the tinny sound of a way over-revved Corvair engine and the familiar loud thump. He turned in time to watch the same Corvair fly down the hill, hit the bottom, become airborne, leap the brick wall, and end up wedged between the wall and the canopy overhead with its tail-end protruding far too saucily for a family-oriented blog.
While the lady, again, wasn't injured, the Life-Saving Crew did have to cut Detroit's masterpiece apart to extricate her. The cause? Yep, you guessed it. The heel of the same stylish sort of shoes had performed the trick of their predecessors.
This time she ended up in court. The Commonwealth of Virginia is generally pretty patient as such entities go, but this was getting to be a blasted habit. The offending stylish shoes were the Commonwealth's Exhibit "A." Both the Defense and the Commonwealth agreed that they were there more too ask his honor what to do about the problem rather than to seek punitive action against the unfortunate driver. The judge leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling for some minutes, came to a decision, leaned forward, and ordered that henceforth, the lady's driver's license, on the line normally devoted to "glasses" or "hearing aid," would read, "sensible shoes."
Our lady of dragons is at it again--publishing a book that causes normal law-abiding people to breakout in loud, uncontrollable laughter in the middle of such places of quiet as libraries, funeral parlors, hospitals, and boiler factories. Her latest hoot, Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator, is hitting the stores and ereaders this December. Considering my low tolerance for zombie lit (something about Sturgeon's Law being at work in the tidal wave of this stuff lately--as it is in all things human), this is one of the two keepers I've found so far (maybe I'll talk about the other next time if I get bored enough). Here's links to some sites with information: The Zombie Cookbook, and Fabianspace. (Note to FTC: I neither bought it nor was given it, you guys figure it out.)
31 October 2010: Feast of St. Arnulf. Luther nails his "95 Theses" to door of Wittenberg church 1517, Maori Wars resume in New Zealand 1864, last successful large-scale cavalry charge (so far) in Battle of Beersheba 1917, torpedoing and sinking of USS Reuben James 1941, Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi assassinated 1984.
Kelly, a guy I worked for many moons ago, put himself through art school working as an undertaker in Virginia's Blue Ridge Mountains. One pleasant Indian summer afternoon, he was out in the driveway of the funeral home washing one of the hearses when he almost became one of the dearly departed. He had just walked under the carport to grab a swig of Dr. Pepper when he heard a car engine rev to light-speed and a loud thump. He looked up to see a Chevy Corvair coming down the hill and across the lawn from the Kroger's parking lot above at a high rate of speed (the fact of a Corvair moving fast proves it was downhill). Kelly did his best second base slide out of the way and the car crashed into the side of the funeral home beneath the carport's canopy.
When he opened the door, he found the driver, a late-middle-aged lady (the French, being the French, have a much more female-friendly phrase: "Une femme d'un certain age...") to be shaken--not stirred--but otherwise unharmed. It seems the heel of one of her stylish shoes became lodged against the accelerator and the Corvair fulfilled Ralph Nader's title, Unsafe at Any Speed.
While the repair work was being done to the funeral home, the owner decided an armor upgrade was in order figuring this might not be the last occasion of a prospective customer attempting to deliver themselves from the supermarket parking lot. So, a three foot-high brick wall was added to the outside edge of the carport.
Kelly was shoveling snow out front when he heard the tinny sound of a way over-revved Corvair engine and the familiar loud thump. He turned in time to watch the same Corvair fly down the hill, hit the bottom, become airborne, leap the brick wall, and end up wedged between the wall and the canopy overhead with its tail-end protruding far too saucily for a family-oriented blog.
While the lady, again, wasn't injured, the Life-Saving Crew did have to cut Detroit's masterpiece apart to extricate her. The cause? Yep, you guessed it. The heel of the same stylish sort of shoes had performed the trick of their predecessors.
This time she ended up in court. The Commonwealth of Virginia is generally pretty patient as such entities go, but this was getting to be a blasted habit. The offending stylish shoes were the Commonwealth's Exhibit "A." Both the Defense and the Commonwealth agreed that they were there more too ask his honor what to do about the problem rather than to seek punitive action against the unfortunate driver. The judge leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling for some minutes, came to a decision, leaned forward, and ordered that henceforth, the lady's driver's license, on the line normally devoted to "glasses" or "hearing aid," would read, "sensible shoes."
Our lady of dragons is at it again--publishing a book that causes normal law-abiding people to breakout in loud, uncontrollable laughter in the middle of such places of quiet as libraries, funeral parlors, hospitals, and boiler factories. Her latest hoot, Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator, is hitting the stores and ereaders this December. Considering my low tolerance for zombie lit (something about Sturgeon's Law being at work in the tidal wave of this stuff lately--as it is in all things human), this is one of the two keepers I've found so far (maybe I'll talk about the other next time if I get bored enough). Here's links to some sites with information: The Zombie Cookbook, and Fabianspace. (Note to FTC: I neither bought it nor was given it, you guys figure it out.)
31 October 2010: Feast of St. Arnulf. Luther nails his "95 Theses" to door of Wittenberg church 1517, Maori Wars resume in New Zealand 1864, last successful large-scale cavalry charge (so far) in Battle of Beersheba 1917, torpedoing and sinking of USS Reuben James 1941, Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi assassinated 1984.
"Now conveniently in rear rows!"
Our lives are filled these days with modern conveniences.* One more and I'm headed straight back to the 12th century. Anymore, etiquette is dictated by these boons of technology.
As an example, upon arrival at church, one should turn off the cell phone. Taking calls in the Confessional is generally frowned upon--even if you are the priest.
Another point of churchly etiquette was brought up in a bulletin from Florida I recently perused. It asks that late arrivals during Mass take seats in the back rather than create a disturbance and distraction by walking down toward the front via the main aisle. Unfortunately, every Sunday Mass (and not a few daily) I've attended, the last four rows are packed with early arrivals. The only spaces left are from the front back.
Apparently, if one sits way in the back, Father can't use his priest-vision to see the dark deeds of one's heart. Also, a lot of this last row thing, I think, started with Jesus' story of the Pharisee and the publican. The Pharisees, now being wise to how things work, sit in the farthest rows to remind all that they are holy by being humble enough to sit in the last rows.
So with the folks attempting to avoid priest powers, those reminding others of their final destinations, the young parents with squalling babies trying to escape other young parents with squalling babies in the"cry room," the ushers playing poker and talking baseball while waiting to take up the collection, and, of course, old poots like me who need the shortest limp to the restrooms, those last rows would give a sardine claustrophobia.
* Convenience: (old middle Wendish) noun. 1. A source of exasperation. 2. A blot on the face of technology. 3. an excuse to pay 100-150% more for an item.
11 October 2010: Feast of St. Peter Tuy. Day did not exist in Italy, Portugal, Poland, or Spain because of implementation of Gregorian calendar 1582, sack of Wexford by Cromwell 1649, Battle of Valcour Island in Lake Champlain 1776, J.E.B. Stuart loots Chambersburg, Pennsylvania 1862, Vatican II begins 1962.
As an example, upon arrival at church, one should turn off the cell phone. Taking calls in the Confessional is generally frowned upon--even if you are the priest.
Another point of churchly etiquette was brought up in a bulletin from Florida I recently perused. It asks that late arrivals during Mass take seats in the back rather than create a disturbance and distraction by walking down toward the front via the main aisle. Unfortunately, every Sunday Mass (and not a few daily) I've attended, the last four rows are packed with early arrivals. The only spaces left are from the front back.
Apparently, if one sits way in the back, Father can't use his priest-vision to see the dark deeds of one's heart. Also, a lot of this last row thing, I think, started with Jesus' story of the Pharisee and the publican. The Pharisees, now being wise to how things work, sit in the farthest rows to remind all that they are holy by being humble enough to sit in the last rows.
So with the folks attempting to avoid priest powers, those reminding others of their final destinations, the young parents with squalling babies trying to escape other young parents with squalling babies in the"cry room," the ushers playing poker and talking baseball while waiting to take up the collection, and, of course, old poots like me who need the shortest limp to the restrooms, those last rows would give a sardine claustrophobia.
* Convenience: (old middle Wendish) noun. 1. A source of exasperation. 2. A blot on the face of technology. 3. an excuse to pay 100-150% more for an item.
11 October 2010: Feast of St. Peter Tuy. Day did not exist in Italy, Portugal, Poland, or Spain because of implementation of Gregorian calendar 1582, sack of Wexford by Cromwell 1649, Battle of Valcour Island in Lake Champlain 1776, J.E.B. Stuart loots Chambersburg, Pennsylvania 1862, Vatican II begins 1962.
Atheists, Extraterrestrials, and St. Francis.
When an avowed atheist dies, I privately say a prayer for them and those who loved them. I fail to see the harm in this because if they are right, it won't matter and if I am, they're probably going to need some help. I have had a Mass said for their repose occasionally, usually naming them simply as "a friend." After all, Jesus'll know who I mean. Whether it helps them or not, I may find out when I report in, I suppose. And there will indeed be rejoicing if they meet me where I want to go. One thing there won't be if we meet up. There will be no "I told you so" on my part--I don't believe in it. If I'm right, they'll know it, and if I'm wrong...well, that'll take care of itself.
For some reason, some folks are of the opinion that finding extraterrestrial life will prove the nonexistence of God. I'm not sure I follow their reasoning. My reaction to the discovery of extraterrestrial life as far as the existence of the Lord is something along the lines of "Yeah? So?" I see no reason why God couldn't have life other than that on our little blue dot. After all, He's God--He can do any dang thing He pleases (one of the fringe benefits of being The All Mighty).
One problem I think they have is that they are attempting to set up a strawman based on their mental construct of an entity they accept as not existing. At this point, the exercise begins to resemble the "Seinfeld" show--a show basically about nothing. Well, I must admit, they have faith if nothing else.
The second problem I see with the product the evangelical atheist pushes is that they really have no product. On the matter of what happens just before the first shovelful of dirt hits the top of the coffin, they say believers are offered "pie-in-the-sky." And they offer...what? My opinion only, but that pie may just taste better than their mouthful of dust.
So we will go our ways. Me sorry that they risk their immortal souls and them sorry I risk...again, what?
But, then, who am I to look askance at my betters? I'm just a poor, credulous peasant trying to get through life the best I can. So eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow may be--Fantastic!
Review (Note to FTC: Bought it myself, troops.)
The Mountains of Saint Francis: Discovering the Geologic Events that Shaped Our Earth by Walter Alvarez. W.W. Norton & Company, 2008.
Being as it's the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi and I like rocks, I figured I'd troll this book by a member of the twosome that gave us the Cretaceous asteroid hit theory (Alvarez the younger) past for your consideration. It is a study of the undersea formation of the Appennine Mountains' limestone and their quarries--where Michelangelo worked as a pup--, the volcanic seven hills of Rome, and the evaporation of the Mediterranean Sea (you can't say things weren't exciting in that part of the world).
The book requires no real knowledge of structural geology and is written on a public high school level (Catholic middle school level). Alvarez is a good writer and makes the geology enjoyable.
4 October 2010: Feast of St. Francis of Assisi. Pope Gregory XIII implements Gregorian Calendar 1582, Battle of Germantown 1777, First run of the Orient Express 1883, Sputnik I launched 1957.
For some reason, some folks are of the opinion that finding extraterrestrial life will prove the nonexistence of God. I'm not sure I follow their reasoning. My reaction to the discovery of extraterrestrial life as far as the existence of the Lord is something along the lines of "Yeah? So?" I see no reason why God couldn't have life other than that on our little blue dot. After all, He's God--He can do any dang thing He pleases (one of the fringe benefits of being The All Mighty).
One problem I think they have is that they are attempting to set up a strawman based on their mental construct of an entity they accept as not existing. At this point, the exercise begins to resemble the "Seinfeld" show--a show basically about nothing. Well, I must admit, they have faith if nothing else.
The second problem I see with the product the evangelical atheist pushes is that they really have no product. On the matter of what happens just before the first shovelful of dirt hits the top of the coffin, they say believers are offered "pie-in-the-sky." And they offer...what? My opinion only, but that pie may just taste better than their mouthful of dust.
So we will go our ways. Me sorry that they risk their immortal souls and them sorry I risk...again, what?
But, then, who am I to look askance at my betters? I'm just a poor, credulous peasant trying to get through life the best I can. So eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow may be--Fantastic!
Review (Note to FTC: Bought it myself, troops.)
The Mountains of Saint Francis: Discovering the Geologic Events that Shaped Our Earth by Walter Alvarez. W.W. Norton & Company, 2008.
Being as it's the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi and I like rocks, I figured I'd troll this book by a member of the twosome that gave us the Cretaceous asteroid hit theory (Alvarez the younger) past for your consideration. It is a study of the undersea formation of the Appennine Mountains' limestone and their quarries--where Michelangelo worked as a pup--, the volcanic seven hills of Rome, and the evaporation of the Mediterranean Sea (you can't say things weren't exciting in that part of the world).
The book requires no real knowledge of structural geology and is written on a public high school level (Catholic middle school level). Alvarez is a good writer and makes the geology enjoyable.
4 October 2010: Feast of St. Francis of Assisi. Pope Gregory XIII implements Gregorian Calendar 1582, Battle of Germantown 1777, First run of the Orient Express 1883, Sputnik I launched 1957.
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