Hereunder

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.