Hereunder

Forgiveness

Gentle visitors, these days your humble Contributor is instructed in the quality and virtue of forgiveness chiefly by way of apparel and apparatus. 

We are rightly admonished to forgive not seven times, but seventy times seven, a multiplication that yields a certain sum (490 to be precise, by the old tables long committed to memory) but intended to suggest a much higher number. 

Now, some slacks hanging in your humble Contributor's wardrobe are well on their way to reaching this number of pardons.   The key, in this regard, is that a tag sewn to a seam reports that the waist band is "x" -- that is, a number reflecting  a certain circumference; when, in fact, it will accommodate "y"  -- a greater circumference -- and, with some effort, "z". 

This sort of apparently lazy geometry would not have pleased Sr. Marie Gerard who, in the dark ages of the last century,  insisted that we young scholars measure things arightly -- until, at least, one demonstrated to Sister that the same, larger though imprecise number suggested by the aforesaid parable was likewise exhibited here -- that is, a greater forgiveness.  

But, the appreciation of this fact is lost on a schoolchild, coming instead only with age, with which, in turn, often comes a change in geometrical approach to the person, which might well be correlated to a marked  slacking (unrelated to the slacks), and which we might express this as follows: a decrease in energy is directly correlated to an increase in mass.  The slacks forgive this physical impropriety by means of a hidden elasticity or generosity in their make-up.

Similarly, today I received, as a gift, a graphite cudgel which promises to be forgiving.  The instrument is intended solely for that strange practice whereby grown persons wander into a field and strike repeatedly at a globule with a stick until they drive it into a small hole some one or two furlongs off.  No doubt, in the distant future, anthropologists will study this odd occupation and wonder whether it was part of a religious rite of mortification or a sign of the general madness that consumed those pitiful peoples.  That the Irish were so closely associated with it would support either supposition.

In any case, a normal club of this type assumes that the striker (say, your humble Contributor) intends the orb to go just as it is addressed -- that is, careening recklessly into a wood  or thicket or stagnant pool; whereas, the forgiving club assumes that the striker intended no such wayward, untoward thing, and, by means of its accommodating design makes straight the path of flight, thereby defying the laws of physics and aerodynamics.

But, all is well: for just so does forgiveness defy enumeration and calculation.

 

Old Jack Ketch

Gentle visitors, Dr. Jack Kevorkian died on Friday, June 3rd.  What follows is a re-issue of a verse on the man from long ago.

Life is death and death is life:
Hug the children, kiss the wife,
Gather round the kin and friend,
Seal the will and make an end.
Now, for all the world a wretch,
Hand your hat to old Jack Ketch.

Call the guy from Michigan—
Surgeon, reaper, handyman,
Gray and speckled, mean and lank—
Bid him bring his CO tank,
(Who in Dearborn would have thought,
What combustion here has wrought.)

Check the settings, fit the cask,
Pull the lever, don the mask,
Breathe the fumes of sweet exhaust;
All the world goes dim and lost.
Now, upon the couch you stretch,
Grasp the hand of old Jack Ketch.

Bulging eyes and ringing ears
(Devils of these hundred years);
Rapid pulse and vertigo
(Adolf, Idi, Uncle Joe...);
Pounding heart and throbbing head
(Hundred million people dead).

Twitching frame and bluish lip;
Close the lids and loose the grip.
All the world is short of breath,
Choking in the age of death:
Now, upon the couch you stretch,
Die in arms of old Jack Ketch.

(Stop the lever, pop the cork,)
(Raise a glass to Doc Kevork.)

Fell Down the Stairs Last Night

I fell down the stairs last night --
Had not thought to flip the switch,
But trod by lesser light instead.
First, my hand upon the railing;
Next, my arms and members flailing
Headlong down the oaken tread.

I lay on the landing boards,
Bruised and battered, glassy eyes
Were fixed upon the darkened height.
Thirteen steps, like twelve apostles–
Each one true–  but one apostate
Cast me down a wicked flight.

I fell down the stairs last night.

A Tupper Before Supper

Gentle visitors, a time came -- a year or so ago, if memory serves (as it still does, albeit with some prompting) -- when your humble Contributor had nearly despaired of finding his own favorite ale, Tupper's Hop Pocket, again.  It seems that the brewery, under whose authority the Pockets were so carefully stitched, was acquired by a global conglomerate of fermentation, and Dr. & Drs. Tupper -- true artists at heart -- had gathered all of their hops and dreams and taken them elsewhere.   Hence, the space on the shelf where Tuppers had for so long made its happy home was filled with a lesser, dysfunctional draft. 

 Then, on Mardi Gras -- the penultimate of penance amongst the Romish and others -- a wonderful friend handed your humble Contributor a package of this blessed nectar, revealing that it yet flowed, only under new arrangements.  It mattered not that he had given up such libation for Lent: it was enough to know that the bottles awaited on the Paschal feast.

Hence, this evening, your humble Contributor sits on the patio of his temporary lodging, enjoying same beverage in all of its kräusened goodness.  The head is ever genuine; the color ever amber-gold; the nose ever aromatic; the taste ever bitter and gently floral; the result, ever vescent.  One's palate is challenged and rewarded, while one's disposition is mellowed, so much so that the view from the patio -- a parking lot -- now seems a beautiful glade.

The great heat of the day has passed, and, on the horizon, the sun is engaged in a good-natured colloquy with the clouds, in which both shine.  Soon, your humble Contributor will repair to the table to partake of whatever fare the other Householder has prepared this evening.  Then, we will give thanks to God for the small but generous gifts: viz, Tupper & supper.

Moving & Storage

Gentle Visitors, just days ago, your humble Contributor watched with an odd detachment as his worldly belongings were boxed, wrapped, dismantled, and packed into seven crates.  From his now former home, the same items were hauled, shipped, shifted, and stored until such time as his fellow Householder locates another house to hold them.

Were he the victim of distress or divorce or disaster, as so many are these days, then that moving day -- beautiful as it was -- might have hung gloomily over his tormented and slowly thinning head.  But, Fortune was kinder than that: he and his fellow Householder were sentenced to a mere three months at  Avalon -- a storied place, with one- and two-bedroom flats for short-term let.  Thus, their situation, 
while discommodious, is not despairing; and, they have no special need to consult Boethius' Dame on the subject.

When your humble Contributor and his fellow Householder arrived at their former home, old Dutch still sat in the White House, and they invested their first sweat in the place by schlepping their meager holdings to the already dated ramble.  Now, in day of the man who's name has yet to be nicked, the same items -- augmented and replaced by necessity -- are moved by men of several cultures:  hispanic, africanic, slavic, and tajik.  Hence, your humble contributor was left to oversee the effort -- largely passivity with occasional calls for authority -- from the backyard, where he watched the hickories sway and begin their labors toward fruition.

Of course, he will miss the Old Girl -- if a gender specification may still be applied -- for she has sheltered him and his from many a squall and storm, many a frigid night and sultry day, and offered space to store his tangibles and intangibles, alike.  But, now, she must serve new masters, and we must find a new domus, if Fortune will allow.

Vested Interests

Gentle visitors,

Sweater vest season is officially upon us, at least in these climes.  And, trend-setter that he is, your humble Contributor has already retrieved his varied collection of vests from the cedar closet and donned the first -- this year, selecting a muted olive as an an inaugural, autumnal garment.

The sweater vest is, of course, a model of utility and fashion.  As ambient temperatures drop, it uniformly maintains one's core temperature, thereby protecting the vital organs from the very real effects of hypothermia.  At the same time, nothing says  "style" more completely than a sweater vest framed and covered by a tweed blazer -- it sends the distinct message of scholarship, sense, and sportiness, all gathered within the same person thusly clothed.  Remove the blazer, and it signals a tempered competence.  Roll up one's sleeves, and it speaks enterprise without arrogance.

Of course, the "V" of the vest creates a proportionate space for a sound cravat -- as an aside, a crew neck in the same ensemble would present a profoundly embarrassing self-negation of even the most sensible necktie -- but the vest also suggests, by understatement, the V of Vigilance, Vigor, Victory, Virility, and even Verisimilitude, in contrast to the loud clamor of a lowbrow lothario in a sharkskin suit.

Indeed, the very word "vest" denotes an authority rightly reposed -- a certain power, franchise, or endowment, signified by the clothing itself, which a mere shirt or sport-coat could never convey.

Naturally, those who do not understand the vest's vitality and versatility (again, the "V") , whether out of envy or ignorance, mock such raiment as unfashionable.  Well, gentle visitors, they said the same thing of polka music, and now regret that they did not in-vest in an accordion.  

Yankovic_justbecause

Humbled and Surprised

Gentle visitors,

When the news hit yesterday morning, your humble Contributor was even more humbled than normal -- he had been nominated for the 2010 Nobel Peace Prize!  To say that he was surprised would be true, but only in the sense of "he surprised himself," since the nomination came from his own hand. 

In any case, here is the text of the nomination.

October 9, 2009

Norwegian Nobel Committee 
Olso, Norway

Distinguished & Noble Norwegians:

I write to nominate myself for the 2010 Nobel Peace Prize.

I realize that your rules forbid any person from nominating himself for this illustrious honor, and that I am not a "qualified nominator."  Believe me, I understand how your Committee would exclude me, in my abject humility and inconsequence, in favor of, say, a member of the U.S. Congress or a learned Professor, who, just by virtue of such an honored office, has exhibited the requisite level of nobility and repute to merit the Committee's attention.  For the reasons set forth below, however, I would ask that the Committee waive these requirements in my own case.

I also realize that this nomination would appear premature and presumptuous to say the least.  With regard to the timing of this nomination, coming some weeks or months before deserving nominees, I am inspired by the current Nobel Peace Laureate: for he came to power in the great land of Chicago, where the electors are encouraged to vote early and often, to bring great tributes to their leaders in order to lay asphalt for the camino real, etc.

With regard to presumption, I can only say that this is very strength of my application. 

No fair review of my life would lead any rational or thoughtful Norwegian -- or, if you would forgive me, any Scandinavian whatsoever -- to believe that I have brought peace to any human, much less global, situation. Instead, it would be fair to conclude that I have brought rancor, dissent, tumult (not to mention turmoil, turbulence, clamor, hubbub, and even hullabaloo).  Moreover, I have generally done so with a particular boorishness and alarmingly distasteful sense of "humor" -- although, I use the last term very loosely.  Furthermore, these disturbances have involved only the most pedestrian, mundane, and provincial matters -- none have concerned great matters of state or of peoples.

Still, I have found myself thinking of peace of late -- that is, within the last few hours.  This morning, I began to long for it and wish for it, over a coffee and biscotti; I then brought these peaceful thoughts to my friends and co-workers, who, sadly, have the habit of ignoring my observations; and, I intend to bring this wishful thinking to the nation and to the world and beyond.  My message, from my heart, under its current disposition, shall be this:  "Give Peace a Chance."

Your awards over the last few years have demonstrated that a laureate need not have accomplished anything of lasting value -- indeed, his accomplishment may be a mere chimera.  In your inscrutable wisdom and foresight, however, you have rightly determined that reality must bow to possibility -- even the most illusory and imaginary.

I would submit that my own curriculum vitae presents the very best case for a plaudit fashioned from your majestic tundra -- having done nothing to promote peace, but wishing fervently that it might be otherwise, etc. 

Sage and generous Norwegians, I can assure you that the award money will be applied as a stimulus to my mission and my lifestyle -- springs at Cannes, summers at Lake Como, winters at St. Moritz, a cruise along your famous fjords, and so forth.

In conclusion, I commit this nomination to your careful consideration (with the requested rule waivers, as previously noted).

Your humble and obedient Contributor,

Remainderman

Global Turning

Gentle visitors,

The denizens of the upper half of this dappled orb, which we fondly Gaia, must have noticed that summer has run its course, and our worries have naturally turned from the scourge of global warming (or at least the breathless warnings of the same) to the inconvenience of hemispheric cooling and light deprivation.  The irony is that the latter worry is insoluble, even with a semi-global awakening, while the former worry --colossal and catastrophic as it is -- might be addressed by concerted, global action.

Your humble Contributor, ever mindful of his greenness and sustainability, etc., once offered a global solution in this vein.  What, he asked, with a scholarly air that once involved the prop of a pipe and a wisp of smoke -- what if we carbon-based freeloaders agreed that we would not exhale for one day out of each week for a whole year?  

Our rough calculations, based on the median volume of CO₂ in a human exhalation (excluding heavy sighs, yawns, and other non-verbal cues) times the mean exhalations per subject per day (21,600, excluding experienced oyster divers and hyperventilating young raconteurs) times 6,789,071,460 (the current estimate of Gaia's children, excluding racketeers, scofflaws, hooligans, and other public officials)indicate that such a project could reduce carbon-emissions by as much as 1%, thereby acting as a virtual hand fan on Gaia's rotund and somewhat overheated corpus.

More importantly, however, the project would have the added benefit of culling the human race from the worldwide diversity of fauna -- the very species whose relentless insistence on living and thriving have placed Gaia in her current peril!  This inspiration for a global non-expiration expiration event seemed the thing until peer reviewers noted that the very success of the project would be its undoing:  that is, after the non-expiration expiration event, no-one would remain to record the splendid results save a handful of tenured chimps with the time and grant money to publish them.

No matter that we reminded our critics of Borel's mathematical theorem, which, in its simplest form, might be expressed as follows:

 

No matter, since, as they noted, typewriters have become exceedingly rare and qwerty these days.  Moreover, the quantity of paper required for such a theoretical simian project -- conservatively estimated at 10¹⁰ reams -- would exhaust the world's forests, thus, again, defeating the very purpose.  Likewise, my alternate suggestion of enlisting the earth's leafy flora -- a generally sedentary lot -- to recycle carbon dioxide into oxygen was rejected as scientifically unsound and politically unthinkable.

On reflection, the problem is less with the world burning up or even seasonally turning away from her shining suitor, than with Gaia herself.  Consider that she fell for her own son, Uranus -- not a bright prospect -- then, unsurprisingly, bore him Cyclops and other monstrous offspring, then sent off her horrific brood to emasculate the poor, dear son/husband.  Goodness! May we not rightly question her judgment?

Perhaps the answer would be to cease worshiping her, and go about our business of living, treading across her ample person with some regard for her tremors and her spells, and for our own muddy footprints.

 

Bill Newman, O.P., remembered

Today I went to Mass a little disconsolate from a perceived slight at the office. The  Mass, at least at the outset, was more lightly attended than usual. The lector came out and announced the prayers for today would be for the optional memorial of St Louis de Montfort. After the opening prayer, the priest, Fr. Jerry, announced, with deep sorrow, the death of Fr. William Newman, "a great theologian"

My heart dropped out of my chest. While I have no doubt Fr.Newman was a great theologian, for me he was a good friend, a cherished confessor, and my all-time favorite priest. This is my tribute to him.

I first met Fr.Newman about 12 years ago when I contacted the church down the road asking if there was a priest available for confession on short notice. I needed healing. Like many Catholics, I have never relished the idea of face to face confession, but in this case I was willing to fore go my trepidation. The receptionist lined me up with Fr. Newman. We discussed the issue at hand, and he discussed things with me with wisdom and compassion. And then we talked about baseball.

I moved away for a while, but three years later I was back in Washington, and attending daily Mass at St. Dominic's in SW Washington DC. In those days Fr. Newman was in the rotation of celebrants, and would typically began every sermon with, "My dear friends" . He also continued to hear confessions on a regular basis. As time went on his 6 foot 3 frame became more noticeably stooped, his glasses got thicker and it was clear that he was slowly losing his eyesight. With that his balance was starting to suffer, and as he walked from the rear of the church after confessions, he would deliberately place his hand on the wall to keep from falling as he walked. For a while he disappeared and I found out that due to concerns for his health, the pastor felt it best he not celebrate Mass in the large church. After a while he returned to hear confessions, this time using a walker. He would often hear confessions well after Mass started and then sit in the back of the church before returning to the sacristy. I would walk with him and we would chat about all sorts of things, such as the St Jude veneration, preaching in the Basilica, and the black and white Dominican vestments and the impression they made on Protestant clergy.

About a year ago, he stopped hearing confessions. I called him on the phone and we chatted about all sorts of things.  Six weeks ago I dropped in and we chatted for what would be the last time. He talked about his long life as a Dominican, including a teaching stint in Ohio that he absolutely could not stand. I found out that even though he was a doctor of theology and was eligible to wear the berratta with gold (or was it red) piping, his real passion was Civil War history. He was frank about his impatience with movements to return to pre-Vatican II traditions, including lace albs. I asked him about scrupulosity, and he became almost wistful, referring to "the scrupes" as if it were a person. He related how St. Alphonso Liguori was plagued by scruples towards the end of his life. As I departed that afternoon, it briefly crossed my mind that I might not see him again.

On April 7, I gave him another call, but got his answering machine. Like a lot of seniors, Fr. Newman was not one to return calls. All the same I left a message wishing him a blessed Holy Week and good Easter. I have no doubt he is celebrating his eternal Easter. I will miss his warmth, joy and wit.

Pray for our priests!

Super Bowl Chili Recipe

Super Bowl Chili Recipe

Let me get a few things off of my chest right now.

1. Harrison was down at the half-yard line. It was no touchdown;
2. That was not "roughing the quarterback". You know what I am talking about;
3. Pittsburgh held on just about every play
4. The Cardinals were robbed, just like Al Franken is doing to Norm Coleman in Minnesota

That being said, you are probably wondering what the secret to my Super Bowl Chili is. In the spirit of charity I will share:

1pound ground venison

1/2 pound of Bob Evans breakfast sausage (white roll)

About 2 tablespoons of dried out Anaheim and Ancho chilies that have been sitting on your counter since August. If you don’t have these handy I suppose you could add more chile powder 1 Tablespoon of chile powder

1 can of tomato sauce (bigger than the little ones, but not the Cosco huge can)

1 can of tomato paste (same size as tomato sauce can)

1 medium onion

2 cloves garlic mashed

1 can RO*TEL 

1 can of beans, kidney

1 red pepper, although you could use a green or orange pepper

1 half-bottle Saranac Vanilla Stout beer put in the empty tomato sauce and paste cans and swished around to get the residual goodness out. Of course drink the other half.

 Some prudent measure of the following, between a tsp and a tablespoon. Your a grown up you decide

Worcestershire sauce

Cumin

Oregano

 Brown Sugar

2/3 cup (dry measure) beef broth to thin it out a bit

 I think that is all I threw in. I browned up the meat first. You need the sausage to give the venison some grease, as deer meat is really lean. While it’s browning, call your wife and ask her where the stuff you can’t find is, After you hang up,  dump the tomato cans and the RO*TEL in a big enough pot. As mentioned above swish beer around in cans to get out all of the paste and sauce. Add whatever spices you are adding. Dump the browned meat in. In whatever leftover grease there is and maybe some olive oil, brown up the onions and garlic. When that is "translucent" or just cooked, dump it in mix. It should be way too thick, so dump in the beef broth. If you don’t have beef broth, I suppose water, or more beer, or maybe even a cup of coffee might do. Stir and when it starts bubbling put it on low. I put a lid on mine to prevent staining of walls and counter from splattering chili. If there is anything left on the counter or on the recipe list you may as well add it now, except for the beans. If you are so inclined, you can look up any of the 12,000 chili recipes on the web and add anything from those you think might work. Once everything is in there, go to your sons basketball game, go jogging, say a rosary, look for tax related paperwork, go to the store and buy chips and anything else you forgot for the big game. After its cooked a long time you can serve it as is, or you can cook some macaroni elbows, grate some sharp cheddar, and put the former under and the latter over the concoction. Eat. Repeat as necessary. Store residual and go watch Super Bowl and be disappointed that the Browns are not in the big game again.

Quadrennial Quandary

Gentle visitors, it seems hard to imagine that it was just four years past when these pages were first vivified with the kind of lively postage that you have come to expect (though largely regret).   Nothing like the unjustified clamor and acclamation generated by that seminal post had been seen in the days BOE (Before the Obama Era).  

Now, your humble Contributor -- four years older but not any the wiser; sprouting white hairs where there once were flaxen; struggling to recall what was once close at hand, such as the Finance Minister of the Kingdom of Bhutan; feeling the burden of advancing age; and, even desperately adopting a more favorable numbering system as regard his years -- now, he questions whether, under these distressing circumstances, he should continue in this laborious and unprofitable work of blogging.

Gads, you might say, how convenient for our humble Contributor to raise such a question, suggesting, as it does, that he has been prolific, prodigious, and even religious in his work, when, in point of fact, his output has been akin to the meager Gross Domestic Product of the Kingdom of Bhutan (according to the most recent report of Finance Minister, whose name we cannot currently recall). 

Your humble Contributor, ever patient with the impertinence of certain hypothetical visitors, would respond that it has always been the policy of this publication to favor quality over quantity, even at the cost publishing nothing.   More importantly, however, the question is more philosophical in nature: namely, has the art of blogging -- once so new, so fresh, and so exhilarating, as in the days BOE --  become the alliterative kin to the bleak and bloated blight of bland and blase blabber of blinkards and blatherskites?  Or, is the very question a blatant blasphemy?

Blimey, you might answer, bleats me.   Indeed, then you would share my angst.

Embracing Convention

Gentle visitors, the very infrequency of posts, hereunder, makes it necessary to describe our publication as an occasional rather than a journal, since the latter denotes a daily contribution.  Not that a daily portion would improve, in any measure, the quality of our fare -- no more than the mass manufacture of cans of carbonated corn syrup could exceed, except in number, the selective bottling and aging of a fine wine.

Indeed, the long intervals -- seemingly interminable to our faithful visitors who languish by their flat blue screens, listlessly gripping their hand-operated electronic device, named for a common rodent, that controls the coordinates of a cursor on said screen, longing for the next great insight to appear on these pages, -- these intervals are not a sign of sloth or inactivity, but of consideration and contemplation, which, in due time, may yield a vintage of complexity and character. 

A recent visit to the grand town of Solon, Ohio, reminded your humble Contributor of its namesake -- Solon, the great Lawgiver of Ancient Greece  and "Father of Democracy" -- and it stirred a little notion, long germinating in our otherwise lifeless and fallowed mind.   In a nutshell (or an acorn, if you prefer), here it is:

In view of the rather tangled and brambled situation in which we find ourselves these days, wouldn't it be nice if a few chosen representatives of the people sat down around a very large table, without the distraction of our revered, regular representatives, and discussed ways in which we might improve the governance of the Union.  Then, having arrived at a few favored proposals, put these to the people for their approval. 

My, it would be nice.  And, happily, the framers of our Constitution made such provision, in the case that Congress, wise though it may be in matters of toy arrows and wool research, race tracks and rum, does not act to correct or limit itself. 

This little notion of ours is the subject of a timely site, Embracing Convention, which we will pursue for the balance of the political season, whereupon we will return, with more frequent occasionality, to our normal posting, filled with the usual style, best described as "avuncular", "astute", "athletic", "adamantine", "alliterative", "assonant", and a host of other words beginning with the letter "a".

St. Patrick in the Dock

Judge:	[reviewing papers]
	Alright. Counsel does your client have a last name?
Counsel:	No, you honor – he just uses "Padraig"
Judge:	Alright.
	Padraig, do you understand that you’ve been charged with multiple violations of the Endangered Species Act?
St. Patrick:	Ni hea!
Judge:	Sir.
	Do you understand that the government alleges that you did knowingly and willfully destroy a variety of species of snake by driving them from their natural habitat?
St. Patrick:	Sea. Ach...
Judge:	Counsel, does your client speak English?
Counsel:	No, you honor –
	only Gaelic, some Latin, and smattering of Old French.
Judge:	Do we have a translator?
Prosecutor:	Uh... actually, we have no Gaelic translators handy, your honor.
Judge:	Well, how can he understand the charges?
Counsel:	Well, your honor, that may not be necessary.
	You see, we have objections to the indictment.
Judge:	And, what would those be?
Counsel:	Well...
	First, the indictment does not specify the species of snake alleged to have been destroyed, as required by the Act.
	Second, the alleged destruction occurred some 1500 years ago – well beyond any applicable statute of limitations.
	And, third, the alleged destruction occurred on the Isle of Eire. With all due respect, your honor, this Court has no jurisdiction.
Judge:	What is the government’s response?
Prosecutor:	Well, your honor, we.. uh....
	To tell the truth, your honor, I am unprepared to respond. After all, aren’t we are the mere fictive imaginings of the Author of this transcript – a despotic Author at that.
	He’s capriciously placed us, here, without any means or resource to respond to your honor – as if you existed, at all.
Judge:	Counsel –
	I didn’t ask for your theosophical ruminations – just a simple response to the objections. And, hearing none, I have no choice but to quash the indictment and let this curious fellow go free.
St. Patrick:	Biochas le Dia!
Paddy:	[standing up in the gallery]
	Bless you, your Honor! Bless you! Ye’ve done the right ting!
Judge:	Sir, are you involved in this matter?
Paddy:	Well, I’d say so.
	Isn’t Padraig me own first cousin twice removed? Sure, he’s a saint if ever there was. And, amn’t I named for himself?
Judge:	Well, sir, I fail to see how you are involved, and I would ask you to sit down.
Paddy:	Ah, sure I will, your honor.
	But, wasn’t your decision pure Solomonic? I mean, not like, cuttin’ the babe in two, like. But, sure, that wasn’t the point was it. No, Solomon knew the story, just like yourself, your Honor.
Judge:	Bailiff, please escort this gentleman from the courtroom.
Paddy:	[being led out]
	May the road rise to meet ye, your Honor! May the sun....
	[transcript ends]

Blast From The Past II

Gentle visitors, the chill winds are still blowing in these parts, but the solar calendar insists that Spring is soon to come.  With this in mind, we think it fitting to refer you to a prior post, being poetical exhortation attributed to one Claude Faubush, a native of Ohio. 

Mr. Faubush had a varied career that including stints as a sportswriter for the now defunct Mahoning  Valley Messenger, a traveling salesman of household utensils and curiosities, and a roaming representative for the Mexican Sweepstakes.  In 1939, he pled nolo contendere to a charge of false utterance (passing a bad check) in Chillicothe, Oh. 

Thereafter, he seems to have reformed his life, and went on to preach revivals all around the Midwest region.   Mr. Faubush was reputedly a second cousin to Rogers Hornsby, and he claimed that his sister-in-law went to school with Bobby Jones. 

On that apparent authority, Mr. Faubush penned a brief tract on the relative virtues of baseball and vices of golf. 

Seven Deadlies Luncheon

Gentle visitors, let us listen in on the monthly luncheon of our constant companions, the Seven Deadlies.

Superbia:	I don’t know why I hang out with you losers.
Invidia:	Oh, Miss High & Mighty.  Aren't we special.
Superbia:	Envious are we? Typical for a lowlife. [looking over menu] God, there’s nothing here worth eating.
Invidia:	"Oh, I mustn’t spoil my gorgeous figure!"
Ira:	What a pair of snobs! You make me sick!
Gula:	[looking at menu] I’ll take the monster portion.
Ira:	Shut your yap tubbo! There ought to be a law!
Avaritia:	I’m not picking up the tab for all of this
Invidia:	Who would expect you to? You’re only the richest one here.
Avaritia:	Well, that didn’t happen by accident, dearie – it’s the fruit of sound investment policy and wealth preservation strategy.
Superbia:	Ah, the nouveau riche. How tiresome.
Acedia:	I’m tired. Are we done?
Luxuria:	Check it out – our waitress is hot, hot, hot!
Invidia:	Oh yeah, she’s beautiful – in a cheap kind of way.
Luxuria:	I didn’t say she was beautiful, just hot.
Ira:	What a perv! Someone ought to bust your chops!
Gula:	Can I get a second helping?
Superbia:	God, what a slob. Have you ever heard of a napkin?
Gula:	[chewing food, indecipherable]
Acedia:	This is boring. Can we go now?
Waitress presents bill
Luxuria:	[grabbing waitress] Hey, baby! Haven’t we met somewhere before?
Avaritia:	[examining bill] See – I told you they’d overcharge. I hope she doesn’t expect a tip.
Ira:	Skinflint!
Gula:	Can I get a doggie bag?
Acedia:	Do we have to walk to the car?

Lent Relent

Gentle visitors, we have arrived at about the mid-point of Lent, a season observed by the Romish and others.  Pilgrim that he is, your humble Contributor marks the season by trudging along with his fellow lowly cohorts in the faith.  But, at about this point, his rebellious nature begins to bray and stay put like senor burro, burdened and halfway up the cold, desert sierra. 

The issue, your humble Contributor tells himself, is the whole notion of self-denial so tied to Lent.   It seems such an out-dated concept, what with the new science of self-affirmation.  Why, he asks himself, continue writing the same old negative self-scripts for yourself when you could be writing positive self-scripts, by which you might take a "healthy 'selfish' or self-oriented route in your life so that you can 'let go' of people who drain your resources and keep you from experiencing full personal health?"  Goodness, it sounds positively wonderful! 

The first step, of course, is visualizing your healthy/selfish self, free from burdensome family, neighbors, co-workers, etc.  Visualize your own private magic omnibus, happily tooling along and tooting the horn ....  Do you see it?  Yes.  Now, visualize tossing these resource-draining others to the curb.  Off you go!  Farewell, burdensome baggage.

Next step, practice assorted self-affirmations: 

• "I am the best friend I have!"
• "I am the brightest, most capable, creative, intelligent, giving, loving, handsome, relaxed, and enjoyable person I know!"
• "I would have had nice teeth, if I had proper orthodontia in my youth!"

Whoops!  Already slipping into another negative self-script.  Let's try the next step: giving up whatever is non-self-affirming. 

• Give up doing the dishes -- the source of much pain and anger.   
• Give up admonishing yourself for your failures of will - "failure" is no longer in your personal vocabulary  -- everything is now a "success", even those successes that would land you in debt, prison, or Siberia for the winter.
• Give up giving up things -- give in and live a little -- you're worth it!

There.  Now, your humble Contributor finds himself feet up, consuming a quart of bubbly, flavored fructose, a tub of popped and larded corn, and a entertainingly vacuous program.  He says to himself, "Self, thou art affirmed."

Sadly, he will probably return to the same, tired old self-script on the morrow -- a man, once again, in denial.

Sowing Wild Oatmeal

Gentle visitors, it has been rumored for some time that your humble Contributor regularly takes his bowl of oats and that this partaking, above all else, accounts for his noted zest and bravado.  It is true that, on a Sunday, he might fry a rasher; however, during the week, when he needs every bit of his vim and wit, oats it is to break the fast.

Some find this odd or even outrageous, given the humble grain's reputation as humdrum and, literally, run of the mill.  But, these same grumblers would put their faith in a collection of sugar-coated flakes.  Even the otherwise sound Dr. Samuel Johnson defined oats as "a grain which in England is generally given to horses but in Scotland supports the people".  But, this was not news even then:  everyone knew not only mares eat oats but does eat oats (and, that little lambs have other dietary preferences).  Moreover, Dr. Johnson, who famously traveled among the Scots, probably never savored a fine, oatmeal laden haggis or joined in singing it's praises.

The health benefits of oatmeal have been well documented, but, then again, your humble Contributor believes that an overzealous pursuit of health can, itself, be unhealthful.  No, the true, and perhaps least known, benefit of oats is its sustenance of a life of action.

Imagine, for example, a fit and bronzed Mediterranean gentleman, just after taking his morning porridge (dotted with the finest fruits of the Italian vine rendered to raisins) on his villa's terrazzo overlooking the Amalfi Coast, descending to the beach and reclining there, shirtless and cooly shaded, in apparent repose, when, suddenly, an attendant comes, long-corded device in hand, announcing, "Signori, telefono."  Our man, retaining his composure at all times, effortlessly takes the receiver and engages in a brief conversation, ending as the unseen communicant on the other line is heard exclaiming, "Presto, Signori! Presto!"

Our man then quickly dons his shirt, tips the attendant, and bounds up the rock-carved stairway, neatly leaping into his Alfa Romeo, firing its ample (if temperamental) pistons, and pealing off toward some new adventure.

Need we say more, gentle Visitors.  All this, and regularity too, await you in a heaping, hardy serving of these steel-cut wonders.

The Shriving

Gentle visitors, from time to time, your humble Contributor receives a dark and terrible vision of what will be. We would prefer to keep this terror from you, but no prophet can rightly withhold what he foresees. What follows is a vision of a strange ritual of the sect of New Puritans, circa 2020, which has its precursors in the present day.

Deaconess: Sistren and brethren and othren, do we have a penitent who wishes to be shriven?

Kowalski: I wish it.

Deaconess:  Come forward penitent. [Kowalski advances, kneels, and hands the Deaconess a parchment.]

Deaconess: Brother Kowalski, thou hast sinned and done evil in the sight of the people.

Kowalski: I have.

Deaconess: Time and again, thou took up the fowle leaf of towbacco and set it afire with an infernal flame. And, thou breathed it in – unlike the blessed example of our Master William, who took only the curative fruit of the hemp – and then thou breathed out of thy mouth the awefull fumes upon the Elect, stinging and beclouding their eyes and befowling their lungs, such that they all perished in awefull pain and agony.

Kowalski: I confess.

Deaconess: Time and again, thou devoured murderous meat and fat, serving thy unsightly belly, and therefrom becoming unshapely and unfit and taxing the common wealth. And, in doing so, thou brought mortal assault upon the persons of our peaceful four-legged sistren and brethren of the field, such that they all perished in awefull pain and agony.

Kowalski: I confess.

Deaconess: Time and again, thou brought the devil’s draught to thy lips, swilling the sirup of gluttonie and fowle carbon, and therefrom becoming unshapely and unfit and taxing the common wealth.

Kowalski: I confess.

Deaconess: Time and again, thou sat by idlie whilst thy sistren and brethren and othren Elect labored in great and wholesom exertion, toiling upon the machinerie of goodly health, and by thy sloth became unshapely and unfit and taxed the common wealth.

Kowalski: I confess.

Deaconess: Time and again, thou set out upon thy smouldering carriage, burning the bastard childe of carbon in infernal flames and spewing his reek upon Holy Mother Earth, choking her blessed frame and bringing her awefull pain and agony and well nigh her perishment.

Kowalski: I confess.

Deaconess: Vile sinner, thou hast been obdurate in thy sins as well as in thy awefull paleness and stubborn fixedness of gender, violating the great Law of Diverseness.

Kowalski: I confess.

Deaconess: Sinner, thou art Impure!

Congregation: Impure!

Kowalski: I am impure.

Deaconess: Dost thou ask to be shriven and made over?

Kowalski: I do.

Priestess Hillary: Sinner, be glad that thou hast, at last, found thy voice and confessed thy sins. Thou art shriven. Let him be flailed and reassigned and made over in the image of the Goddess. [congregation applauds]

Deaconess: Step forward Penitent No 1 and receive thy penance with joy. Do we have another penitent who wishes to be shriven? ...

Poor Relations: St. Valentine's Day

Girl, sure it's been ages since we've talked.

Ah, it has -- donkey's years.  And, how's things?

Oh, grand, grand. And yourself?

Grand.  And, did ye know that today's St. Valentines Day?

Well, sure, every day's a feast for some saint or another.

'Tis, but ya know, St. Valentine's day's special, like, the patron saint of love, an' all.

Love is it?  Sure, I had it marked down for Saints Cyril & Methodius, an' all.

Well, sure, them too, but it first belonged to St. Valentine, long 'go. 

Did it?  Well, I'll put him down as well -- but, ya know, I don't tink Cyril or Methodius 're young snappers.  It's not like dey just showed up last week.

No, not at tall.  Sure, dey've been 'round for millenia an' all.  But, I wonder, did Himself bring ye some roses or sweets, like, for Valentines?

Himself?  Sweets an' roses?  Divil a one, girl.  St. Valentine preserve us, but I'd 've been in a feirce state a shock if he had.  Sure, I'd be lucky to get a "top o' mornin' to ye" from the likes of him -- he saves that blarney for tourists when they come 'round.  Then, he'll sing a bit a "When Irish Eyes are Smiling" -- that sort a ting.  Sure, the Yanks love it.

Ah, they do, they do.

But, Himself,... saints, he's a great lump of a man.  Why, it's 5 bells this mornin' and your man's still snorin' in the scratcher, an' isn't Brigid bellowin' in the barn to be milked?  Sure, I gave him a good kick and said, "Get up now and do your duty.  Poor Brigid's gettin' ready to burst." 

Now, I taught you sold the cows when you did the IPO?

Ah, we did, we did.  But, we kept Brigid for a bit a cream for the tea. 

Good tinkin'.  Well, the day's not over girl.  Maybe he'll rise to the occasion. 

Ah, sure, that'd be a gift ... an' miracles never cease.

And, sure, he's still a fine figure of a man.

He is, at that.

A Word on Words

Gentle visitors, it occurred to us recently that we had not offered one of our noted "A Word On...." commentaries in nearly two years -- a shameful omission when you consider the many patient visitors who had waited, day in and day out, full of anticipation, for the next such post -- like little children awaiting St. Nick or a Sufi awaiting Illumination, enduring the daily disappointment, which, in time, descended to disillusionment and even disconsolation, at failing to see that Word of Wisdom dripping from these pages as golden drops of honey. 

We cannot describe the guilt and shame we feel at this negligence.  And, yet, there it is:  staring at us like an enraged rooster of Italian derivation.

Then, as we hurried to correct this remissness, we noted that, in composing "A Words On Words", we could not possibly convey such a word without using words.  Oh, the horror and  conundrum of it!  Like the hand drawing the hand, we were suddenly caught in a world of topsy-turvy solipsism -- or, more precisely, in world of raging circularity.   "Words, words, words ...." like the song of Italian derivation says.

But, therein lies the trouble -- the derivation that is.  Those of our visitors who are less etymologically challenged know that the word "word" derives from the Latin (hence Italian) word "verbum".  But, imagine a world with all verbs and no nouns -- a raging torrent without ceasing -- all action without subject or object.  That is, like much of our contemporary entertainment.

Ah, those Italians are seductive -- we'll grant you that -- but what a monstrous conspiracy of words, words, words!

Parole, parole, parole....

A summer poem

Goodbye to Kauai

Greens turn to grey as we soar softly away on the cobalt expanse
Beyond the grey is green
In the green the folds
In those folds I hid in for a while
From your verdant tresses the native boy conferred upon my love the ginger flower
Now fragrantly perishing in the stateroom

Steep mountain shores stand in their not quite eternal attention
They saw Cook leave
They saw the Duke leave and now I must go
Have they returned?
Are they among your mangrove fingers in the Wailua ?

May the rains cool your tongue Kauai!
Sweat laughter in excess to the cliffs!
Let it drown your pigs and roosters

So much beauty has been drained from you but you offer more for any passer by

I will never see you again Kauai

Poultry Geist

Another XAT.

It happened so fast -- the awful screech, the flash of black, the fluttering of feathers. Then, Diane turned to see her beloved Marsala mortally wounded and lying on the ground. She rushed to his side.

"Il pollo," he whispered, gasping for air. "Il pollo diavolo."

***

Dr. Picata greeted Diane as she entered his office. "Miss Marbella, do come in and sit down." She sat slowly, clutching a handkerchief, and he took his chair, opening a large file.

"Miss Marbella, I have reviewed the entire matter. What happened is indeed rare, but there are similar cases, especially one reported by a M. Tetrazini in 1855. You see, the Acona breed can be very aggressive when threatened.  Some rural Italian folk, especially among the Parmesans, even have legends of those ‘possessed by evil spirits’."

Diane dabbed her eyes.

"But," said Picata, lighting his pipe, "I understand they make a very good cacciatore."

Fat Chance

Gentle visitors, in recent posts, we have encouraged you, again and again, to give fat a chance.  Now, on the veritable feast day of fat, we make our final appeal for largeness of heart.

Consider what one would choose against fat -- for the opposite of fat is thin.  The very word conjures images of gauntness, or of a gruel and the most cold and scant of same. 

Worse still is another opposite of fat: lean. 

"Lean" suggests a slight inclination -- a kind of waffling uncertainty or insecurity, a faintness, a lack of conviction and passion -- as against "stout", which denotes solidity and steadfastness, inured to fatigue or hardships, firmness of purpose, as well as a strong very dark heavy-bodied ale made from pale malt and roasted unmalted barley and (often) caramel malt with hops. 

One no more longs for the "lean years" than one finds a man "lean and happy."  Otherwise, we would never have the fortune of sharing in a largess; rather, we would be picking through the meager scraps of a smalless.

Friends, we are about to embark on the season of Lent.  During this period, your humble Contributor is noted for his ascetic practices -- a fact of which he is duly proud.  On any given Lenten day, he may be seen consuming a few thimbles of lukewarm tap water, a stale crust of bread, and, perhaps, the odd parsnip.  But, note, that he will be foregoing fat for a noble reason, not out of some frail fear of fat.

Therefore, gentle visitors, subject to the discipline of Lenten observance, a few words of admonishment.  Don't fear; don't worry; be happy.

Whistlepig In Winter

I am the lonely Whistlepig.
In Fall, a gen'rous hole I dig,
Then crawl inside and hunker down,
While snow and ice fall all around.

I drowse away the topside freeze
'Til winter's grip begins to ease,
Then rouse myself to creep upstairs,
To see about the world's affairs.

I am the sole appointed judge
Of when the frosty stuff will budge:
Six weeks to go, if there be sun;
But, much less so, if there be none.

And, having made my tunnelled run,
Why, then, my lonely job is done.

Traffic Report, Sunday, January 27, 2008

Gentle visitors, the virtual foot traffic across this site still most closely resembles the growth in GDP in Zimbabwe.  Therefore, it would be fair to compare each new post to a fresh attempt at resuscitating a hopelessly terminal patient, whose only consolation would be a quick death.  Still, we charge the paddles and apply them to our blue-lipped, pulse-less project.

In view of this apparent futility, one might reasonably ask, "Why not let the poor thing die?  I mean, give a decent burial and all, but... for goodness sake, man, why?"

We might answer, "Well, friend, who asked you?"  But, apart from the rudeness of such a retort, it is entangled in circularity -- for no-one asked the asker of such question; rather, it was the asker who did the asking -- and sophistry -- for, by such a response, the true askee paints the true asker as askee, doubts that the asker is, in truth, an askee, and masks, by asking, his status as askee, in one pass.  No small task.  But, it will not do.

We might also answer as Mallory did when asked "Why climb Everest?"  His answer:  "Because it's there."  But, apart from the flippancy of such a response, there is the issue of the "thereness" of such a thing as this site.  Certainly, it is not "there" as Everest is there, strongly surmounting the Himalaya, or Kilimanjaro is, majestically rising from the vast African savanna, or Poughkeepsie is, still drawing inspiration from its founder, Baltus Barent van Kleeck.  Perhaps, our little site, Hereunder, is only there metaphorically.  Philosophers dispute such matters, and who are we to take issue with their dispute. 

No, we must address the question fairly and squarely.  We must not prevaricate or evade or deflect the query by mounting up words and phrases sufficient to leave the curious visitor nearly out of breath and disappointed to find that, while he climbed the first mound of diversionary text in the hopes of receiving the answer when he had finally reached the summit, we had been busy building several other and larger mounds of dense and tangled verbosity directly in the poor visitors path.  Such a quest may have proven too daunting even for Mallory himself.

May he rest in peace.

Blast From The Past

Gentle visitors, as it is, once again, the Feast of St. Thomas Aquinas, we offer, once again, this exemplar of his logic from a rare text tentatively attributed to that great saint and scholar.

Hector & The Tree Frogs

Our first XAT.

Hector looked up at the small creatures high in the live oak, which had grown silent on his approach.

"Of course!" he said, almost to himself, "Hyla cinerea!  That explains it.  We were looking for something amphibious but not for something arboreal."  He shook his head.  That also explained Captain Frank's apparently crazed dying words:  'The trees...  the trees are full of frogs!'"

Hector's companion, Shorty, nodded his head.  "Well, my friend, you've solved another mystery.  But, I gotta tell you, with all this sleuthing I'm famished.  Why don't we hustle back to town and grab one of Mike's famous footlongs before he closes shop."

"Well, alright...," said Hector, scratching his head.  "Though, I worry about all the nitrates." 

Shorty slapped his friend's back heartily. "Don't worry, Hec, you'll live--".  Or, maybe not, thought Hector, ominously.

As the pair turned and walked toward the old logging road, the chorus of cacophony awakened from its quiescence.

Extremely Abbreviated Tales (XAT)

Gentle visitors, in recent years, we have entered the era of soundbites, diminished attention spans, and profoundly abbreviated textual communications.  Therefore, as a service to you, we will begin a series of extremely abbreviated tales (XAT) sized to fit comfortably in no more than two PDA screenloads.  Whereupon, our gentle mobile Visitors may comfortably read the tale while driving, drinking coffee, and checking messages -- all without the enormous investment in time that was required for FOL (Freaking Old Literature).  Our first offering anon.

New Year's Dissolutions

Gentle visitors, a colleague of mine today announced that he had lost four pounds on his new diet in just a week -- one of his resolutions for the New Year.  Your humble Contributor was, of course, quick to congratulate him, though he was also forced to note, after a quick calculation, that his colleague would, if he maintained the current rate of weight loss, cease to exist in a year's time.  Unfortunately, this colleague was displeased to hear this cautionary observation, since it was taken as deflating in what was a concerted period of deflation.  A paradox.

In any case, your humble Contributor has, for the New Year, taken to living more resolutely a dissolute life.  Consider that, rather than taking the stairs, he patiently awaits the lumbering lift.  Or, that, while others are sprinkling flax seeds on otherwise flavorful meals, he is wisely hunting up fatback.  Or, that, instead of undertaking a program of vigorous exercise, he prudently leans back in the lounger.  This is virtue in action -- or, rather, in inaction -- but, the sense of it must be clear.

Who knows, but in a year's time, our next president may be sending out the Obesity Police to serve a citation on our then plump person.  But, that would occur in another New Year, with its own resolutions.  In this year, our program is to supply what is lacking in our own gravitas.   It does no-one any good in any way to be seen as a light-weight; whereas, it does one wonders to seen as having heft and sway in important quarters.  And, if those quarters be the hind, so be it. 

Further, few of us would celebrate a loss as we would a gain, any more than we would greet lossful employ for gainful.  Nor would we prefer the petty to the grand -- in larceny, or any other matter.  No.  To be so inclined would be to appear slight, scrawny, spare, and even meager. 

Let it therefore, BE RESOLVED, gentle visitors, that we will attend to our attenuated frames and become, once again, men and women of substance.

Bacon For Breakfast

Gentle visitors, one must wonder when it was that the phrase, "bringing home the bacon", made its sad transition from the literal to the figurative.  No doubt, it coincided with the first stirrings of the health bolsheviks, who began by preaching their wild-eyed heterodoxy of "good" and "bad" cholesterol -- as if anything so good could ever be bad, unless it had lain in the larder too long -- and ended by commanding us (the eating petit-bourgeoisie) to eschew such cholesterol-rich items as bacon.

Well, your humble Contributor would rather chew than eschew.  And, so, on a Sunday morn, after having attended the sabbath rituals, he lays several of the fatty strips upon the griddle, arranging them lengthwise -- north to south, though this is an individual preference based upon the belief that a longitudinal presentation yields a more satisfactory result, given polar attractions  -- listening for that first sizzle, watching for that first shedding of grease, and sniffing for the first aromatic release.   

Yes, gentle visitors, all of the senses are keenly involved in the process, -- even, touch for what would these porcine slices be without their characteristic crunch under tooth -- the last and greatest sense of all being taste.  Ah, the taste!  But, do not think that the poor remains of a turkey fashioned into a crude simulacrum could approach this:  smoked meat, crackled fat, and salt sufficient to get the heart started (or stopped, as the occasion may require). 

And, not just bacon.  For, as good as it is in itself, alone it would be like poor Adam forlorn in the Garden with all of his ribs intact.  No, the bacon requires a mate of equal nobility -- and, roughly equivalent levels of cholesterol -- but of a different, though complimentary character.   

Thus, your erstwhile Chef, employing the slick leavings of the bacon, taps two shells on the griddle edge and watches the metamorphosis of the pair of poultry precursors from gelatinous globs to sturdy yet flexible vittles in the skillet.  Thence, a quick flip to affect the mode "over easy":  and, how easily they slide onto the plate prepared for them!

Add a few slightly charred fruits of the grain, with an application of churned dairy product and, perhaps, the preserve ttoof apricot and -- viola -- the perfect grand petit dejeuner!  Already we feel the vessels bursting with lipids of the best sort.

And, why not?  We've known for 750 years that Bacon was a great friar.