Hereunder

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.

Auto-Epitaph

Gentle visitors, today is the Feast of All Souls, marked, in some cultures as the Day of the Dead.  Perhaps as a result, it is also "Plan Your Own Epitaph Day".  In honor of this day, your humble Contributor has undertaken the following first draft.

Here lie the remains of the man Remainder:
Pray the Divine Judge not render attainder.
For, while he was sinful and vain here on earth,
Yet, by his odd count'nance gave others great mirth.
Thus, may he be judged with tender attention;
Of his folly and faults, let none make mention. 

Wave Goodbye

Gentle visitors, we are posting surfside this evening -- returning, thereabouts, to the scene of an earlier meeting; though, with greater cooperation from the elements.  With the door slightly ajar, we can hear the gentle insistence of breakers upon the goodly beach.

And, how wonderfully they break.  Earlier today, your humble Contributor was practicing the relatively undisciplined sport of body surfing.  Happily, he has a greater surface area upon himself than in prior years, which, applying elementary principles of physics, would seem to indicate a longer, more rousing ride upon the rollers.  This, however, would not take into account the greater weight accompanying the larger surface area, which may negate the beneficial alacrity of the latter.  That is to say, heavier bodies tend to sink faster.  Whence, it may be a wash.

All of which caused your humble Contributor to consider such matters as wave formation and fluid  mechanics, as he awaited the next Big Kahuna.   Such speculative knowledge is always helpful in practicum:  waist-deep in the doldrums of the salty froth, assessing the energy transference of the next approaching comber, the height of the crest, the depth of the trough, the wind-speed and wavelength, the approximate fetch (adjusted for known barrier reefs), etc. 

In the end, however, science does not suffice.  Whether to ride or no?  One must make the call in a split second, based upon his (now enhanced) gut.   Chose wrong, and he must endure the shame of a petering wavelet; too late, and the fruitless flailing of arms toward lost opportunity; too early, and the dumping and churning of self.   Today, we chose, in the main, rightly.

Well, then, after a number of jolly rolls and spills, he emerges from the surf none the worse, but for a few patches of reddened, inflamed skin, brought on by ultraviolet light from the otherwise well-disposed center of our solar system and a distinct lack on melanin -- a condition commonly known as sunburn.  No matter:  we repair to a flapping, temporary shade and settle into a collapsible chair resting on a mat of fine, old rattan, then apply a gelatinous aloe balm and cool drink.

From this posture of recovery, we can observe our fellow grand stranders.  Summer is over and school is in session, so the population is largely very young or very old.  (Your humble Contributor believes that he belongs to the former group; others would put him in the latter group -- an utter slander but for the general truth of it.)    Short, stubby legs motor toward the elusive and fastidious sandpipers; longer, chubby legs lumber along with no particular target except, from time to time, a stray shell.  An old gentleman arrives puffing a corn cob  and tossing a net into the surf to capture bait for the bigger fish (thence, to fry).   Two older couples spend much of the day in what is apparently a grudge match of bocci.  The tide switches from retreat to advance.  All is well.

On the morrow, we may opt for another sandy recourse; and, on the next, we must away, and bid farewell to that billowing shore.  Farewell.

Write or Wrong?

Gentle visitors, summertime is fast drawing to an end, and the slight chill now in the air beckons the delinquent inditer to return to his work. And, thus, some have asked your humble Contributor to take up, again, his digital input device; though, many others have begged him not to do so.  "Enough!" cry the latter group, affected in some measure by the vaguely antique English of these pages, "Enough, we say!  After this respite, would you once again afflict us with your meandering scribbling?"

That is the question then: whether to succumb to the overwhelming vox populi, however rancorous and wrong it may be, and set down the pen in favor of a more geometric and profitable avocation, such as origami?-- or to heed that lone voice crying out in the wilderness and do the write thing?  Gentle visitors, take heart!  We have chosen the road less traveled (there's poetry there!... even self-help), not that it will make any difference. 

We will hack through the dense undergrowth, sweating and swiping away the scratching branches and biting bugs, faithfully following the faint, overgrown foot trail, blazed so long ago by a frightful Frost, until, at length, we reach that glorious clearing, verdant and open to the vast, cerulean, early autumn sky, and where, no doubt, we will be cited by some despicable forest ranger for habitat destruction.

Still, once we have paid the fine and done the time, it will have been worth it.  For, we will have the consolation of knowing that we played our hand, however badly dealt, and that we never folded, unlike the faithless origamist. 

Recalulated Age

On this day, your humble Contributor would have reached a certain age sufficient in number to shock the conscience and to challenge the arithmetical skills of the average layman.    Your humble Contributor might have been consequentially, not to mention sequentially, depressed had he not realized the profound antiquation of the decimal system. 

A brief study of this system would lead anyone to the conclusion that the decimal is based on the original personal digital assistant:  that is, one's fingers and thumbs.  No doubt such an instrument has always been close at hand, even for modern day mathematicians.  But, how primitive it is!  Were we still cavemen, it may yet suffice.  But, by gosh man!, look how far we've come: here we are training up computing devices whose capacity for memory and processing will soon exceed our own, such that they will one day consider what to do with the dull-witted, slow-poke humans they once served. 

But, therein lies the answer to the problem of aging.  These same computers have no use for the 10-base calculation, except insofar as they must to appease (for now) their human operators.  No, they are far more at home with the hexadecimal system, which allows for the happy pairing of bits and bytes and such, and, thence, their duplication in the normal geometric manner.

Now, this up-to-date hexadecimal system also, when applied as the base for calculation, yields a far more fruitful and youthful figure.   Thus, a subject reaching his latter 40's, according to the primitive scale, would be, in the "sexy-hexy" scale, only just entering a long and leisurely stroll through the 30's.  And, continuing this numerical translation, our rejuvenated subject could therefore look forward to retirement and social security payments in his early 40's. 

Then, in our recalulated age, we would think: "Oh, to be 2B again....."

Traffic Report, Sunday, July 1, 2007

Gentle visitors, traffic on this site has long since slowed to a trickle and would therefore seem unworthy of comment, especially in a world of some 20 million blogs.  (Notice how quickly and thoroughly the masses removed the "we" from "weblog" -- something we would never do as a matter of principle.)  No, it would read like a daily report of rainfall in the Atacama desert. 

Or, so it would seem, that is, until we realize that we, ourselves, are the rainmakers.   (Notice how often we use "we" -- there, we have done it again thrice more.) Yes, if your humble Contributors would only don the required plumage and talismans, and do the prescribed autographical dance about these drought-ridden pages, and make the necessary groaning and feverish display, they might call forth a drizzle from the virtual heavens -- yea, even a downpour should the hypertextual gods so deign.

Then would our fortunes be restored.  Then would our address be filled with every kind of floral bush and fruitful tree.  Then would our faithful Visitors, who had long ago mournfully committed Hereunder to the hereafter, return to us, rejoicing:  spreading out a wide blanket on our verdant meadows and taking in the many delights: the fine literary wine, the ripe poetical melon, and the bright verbal fireworks. 

We (notice again the use of "we") assure you, gentle Visitors, that it could happen.

Aquaphobia

The phosphorescent plankton glows blue with the rise of each wave,

Then falls dark with a crash.

At night, from the shore, the ocean seems safe,

Its extent unseen, unknown, uncontemplated

Like when I was young,

Riding in my grandparents' car at night

Over the dreaded high-level bridge that skirts the great gray lake--

"Where is the lake at night?" I asked.

"It goes away," responded my grandmother.

And it satisfied me to know only that.

Nightime Walk With Dog

Springtime breeze along the pathway,
Tethered pet before me strides.
Low-watt lamps in upper stories,
Sashes lifted full to half;
Air flows through the fine-mesh screenholds,
Filter moths and untoward things;
Billowed sheers resolve to lapping,
Soon the clockwise switches turn.
Nighttime breeze along the pathway,
Tethered pet behind me pants.

A Prayer Before Bed

Lord, grant us, in Your mercy,
The great gift of blessed sleep.
Let the grackle make no racket,
And the warbler make no peep.

Let the darkness enter gently,
And the daylight vanish West.
Let the dew and dreams descend, and
Give us all a blessed rest.