BASEBALL SPIKES, YIKES

I saw a headline today about Spring training.  Really.  These days I didn't think that professional baseball even existed any more.  I got so disgusted with the antics of the baseball establishment some 20 or 25 years ago that I decided that they didn't need me any more and I sure as shooting didn't need them.  With the way things have been going, is there still some Fleers Bubble Gum on the market?  Maybe I could look it up, 


but I'm not interested in that neither.
The spikes off to the side were the high top variety.  I didn't ever own a pair of those.  I had the low-cut ones that were made out of kangaroo leather.  Listen, they had to be of kangaroo leather because cows can't run fast enough to provide leather for speedy guys like baseball players.
It was quite a birthday the time I got my first pair of spikes.  EFR Dion had to put his foot on my wind-pipe to prevent me from wearing them to bed that night.  It was my birthday, I remember that.  It's easy to remember because my birthday is in Spring Training Season.  It's also easy to remember because I remember that he had not put up such a horrible fuss when I took my first baseball glove to bed with me.  Sometimes children just can't figure their parents out.  They're so moody from year to year. 
EFR must have had this thing about spikes because he was rather displeased when he caught me sharpening the teeth with a file, like I had read that Ty Cobb did.  I tell ya, that man gave me fits with his moods.
There is one thing for which I am grateful.  I grew up in an era when 10 year old boys were allowed to wear real spiked shoes on the baseball diamond.  We could have our own bats and yes, they were made out of wood.  All the years I played baseball I never saw a player get badly cut and I never, ever saw a bat splinter into flying shards.  I saw catchers get flattened by foul tips to the unmentionables; I personally took a bad hop to the jaw and had a hard time talking and eating for about a week; I one time had the wind knocked out of me and lost consciousness for about 2 or 3 minutes [I haven't got them back yet.  My own mini international dateline.], but I never saw anything bad happen because of defective equipment. 
So that's what I think about baseball players and the rest of the professional cry-baby crowd.  I'm glad that I don't spend my money on them any more.
By the way, what ever happened to the Boston Braves?

ANTIQUE WOODEN SPINNING TOP

I thought of this today.  Click here to see what will make me remember it forever...well, at least until my ever turns into a 4 ever ... that's not enough for me...I want a
6 ever!
Silliness aside, I did think of these things today and along with that thought, came the legend of the Great Top Thrower, the Paul Bunyon of Toppists[?]
I must tell you that I do not have a clear memory of what age I had attained when I was introduced to the toys pictured here.  All I know is that it took me a long time to master the art of getting them to perform well for me.  EFR Dion was of very little, if any help in this area.  All he eveer accomplished in frnt of me was to fail.  In our language it was "T'a encore fait pétaque." My maternal Grandfather was the key to the training, but his dominant hand had been taken from him in an industrial accident many years prior.  I don't remember who had given me the toy.  All I remember is that the learning curve that led to the degree of proficiency that I finally acquired was not very steep.  It was a very gentle upward slope full of frustration and infantile cuss words.  My grandfather had one good hand and the stump of his dominant muscle mass to teach me.  I would go to his apartment [his and my grandmother's apartment, I mean] for lunch and between hugs, and eating and story telling [Bible stories] he would spend some time trying to get me to make the top work.  Slowly but surely I arrived at a low level of ability and took it from there.
I never got to the point of the control that is illustrated in this YouTube video. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbG2OI1OOzA&feature=related
My grandfather's favorite story was about the child in his neighborhood who was the ace top thrower/spinner of the region.  His claim to fame was that when the children would stand around throwing their tops, this fellow would wait until one was "resting" and throw his right on top of it with such force that the "resting" top would split and his top would take its place on the spot where the split top had been.  Needless to say, we believed him, I most of all.  I believed him so deeply that I was dismayed that EFR Dion winced in skepticism at hearing the story.  
I never succeeded in being an excellent top spinner/thrower. I must admit that I did have a lot of happy hours with this toy.  Nowhere near as many hours as I did with my jack knife, but that is a story that I have already told and which you can read here.
The cap to this thought is that during the day today I stumbled across an antique wooden spinning top on Ebay selling for a mere $ 135.00  I ran out there immediately to get it for you all.  You remember it from the beginning of this post.
I'm sure that you will all be impressed.  Hey, don't laugh.  It happens to be in better than excellent condition.  So, there!

LOSS OF CHARACTER ?

Let them cant about decorum, Who have characters to lose!

Robert Burns

http://www.gsu.edu/magazine/770.html

Don't you just love the quaint English of the Great Scot, Bobby Burns?  I just know that my Scottish friend is going to call me when he sees this and compliment me about finally waking up to real culture and touting my appreciation of the Great Poet.  Note Well:  Always in Capital Letters when speaking of the Great One.

There has really been a change in the social comportment of people. It is quite visible here in California where even elderly people are regularly addressed by their first names by the younger, up and coming set.  Even I fall into the category of those who say, "My father gave me the name Paul because he wanted me to live up to it. So, "Paul" it is no matter how old you are and no matter how old I am.  There are some people who are always careful to call me sir. [Few, very few!] Then there are many more who call me "Senor" out of a very different cultural background.  In both instances, though, I find it more difficult to live up to the neutral appellation than to the command from on high, "Paul." 
I am a very direct person.  I am sometimes very close to the famous character by the French Classical comedy author, Moliere.  The Misanthrope was named Alceste.  I could tell you the whole story, but it is all wrapped up the the pithy Scottish quote that you see above.  Alceste was chasing a girl, but he didn't think that decorum was a human virtue. So he had a big problem.  I have to admit that I sometimes fall into that mode too and sometimes fall into crass "Truth Talk."  The Voice from the Kitchen hates it.  So we have "fun" with it from time to time.  Sad that she doesn't know Moliere.  
The second part of Bobby's quote is the one that I guess I could really take to heart.  Do I, at my young age, still have enough character left to worry about misplacing the little bit that is still there?  I'll leave that up to you to decide?  How's that for a thought?  

FUNNY BOOKS, COMIC BOOKS, GRAPHIC NOVELS? WHOA!

This thought came to me today.  Wait until you hear the synaptic connections that made it happen.
 I was preparing a Power Point presentation for a rather complex presentation that I constructing.  I decided that I would opt for many slides with few words in order to get a rapid visualization of what the complicated texts conveyed, rather than to get too philosophical about abstract concepts.  So, I waded in fearlessly and I was happy with the results I was getting, so I plowed ahead.  After about the 5th or 6th slide I remembered a couple of boyhood events that didn't turn out too well for me and my brother.
For a while we would go to visit our maternal grandmother with Mom and Dad on Sunday noon, or early afternoon.  While there, it became a little ritual that we would both receive ten cents to go buy a comic book.  So we would take our dime and go for it.  We usually were rather sensitive to the fact that we would come out ahead if we each bought a book featuring different characters.  Something like you see at the top of the page.  
Well, wouldn't you know that the Sunday came along when we got to the store and were attracted to the same book.  Not only that, we would not let go of our personal desire to "own" the book to which we were attracted.  No matter how much we discussed, pouted, threatened and stomped our feet, neither one of us would budge.  So we spent both dimes for identical books.  I think we felt it on the way back to the house, but I don't remember our emotional state.  What I do remember was the frustrated disgust hurled at us by EFR Dion.  Oh, yeah!  That, I remember.  That's good, because it never happened again.  Of course it did help that he never gave us two dimes again.  Of course, you could see that coming.  We should have seen it coming too.
===================
Now, you have to know that EFR Dion was not keen on our reading comic books.  He thought that they were poisoning our outlook on life.  He thought that they were taking us away from well grounded moral reality.  He didn't like the fantasy world that he could see that they were introducing into our lives.  He thought that we were having some trouble distinguishing the possible from the impossible as it related to our own physical, mental and emotional abilities.  Every now and then he would catch us saying or doing things that just a little too "Gene Autry" or "Dick Tracy" and he would yank our leash and accentuate it with a snide, "The Green Hornet doesn't live here."  Sometimes he would get a little more lengthy and give us a two paragraph speech about  how he thought we were ruining our lives with too many "funny books" as he called them.
Needless to say, one day we proved him right.  In fact I was the "brains" of the operation.  My brother told me that it would not work.  I convinced him that it was worth a try.  I'll try to keep this short.
Picture twin beds side by side separated by about 24 inches.  I tell him that if he kneels low to the floor, I can spring from one bed, scoop him up, and fly to the other bed, Superman style.  I convince him that I think I can pull it off.  So he scrunches down between the two beds.  I squat on the edge of one bed, tell him that, "Here I come...Ugh, CRASHHH"  
Do I have to tell you what happened next?  Yeah?  Really?  OK.  But just a little bit.  No, EFR Dion did not RUN upstairs to our room.  It was worse than that.  He slowly, agonizingly, ominously stomped up the stairs and literally hulked into the room.  In a nanosecond he knew what had happened.  Not in detail, but in essence.  He didn't inquire about our health, he knew that stupid kids are like drunks, they're never the ones who get hurt.  So it was the bed that got "hurt."  He sure saw that quickly enough.  
I have to admit at this time that I do not remember the details of what happened.  He did not hit us. Not that time.  I think my brother told him what had happened.  I think that I was so traumatized by the whole thing that I can't remember it very well, except in a humorous way.  I do remember the last thing that he said as he left the room.  "There will never be another "funny book" in this house."  
There wasn't.  For about two years.  But that's another story.
Think "Treasure Chest."

About Treasure  chest comics

Featuring inspirational stories of sports, folk heroes, saints, school kids, history, science; Treasure chest comic book series totals on the fundamentals of Catholic living.

Treasure chest of fun and facts children comics also includes a typical fare of animal humor comic strips. This catholic comic was distributed in parochial schools from 1946 to 1972.
Treasure chest is a classic and now defunct comic book created by Dayton, Ohio publisher George A. Pflaum and other comic creators & artists such as Frank Borth. It was published biweekly throughout the school year until the 1960s.

[full story]

INTERNET HONESTY

Home page of www.isotranslations.com
Those of you who have been around a while remember the funny stories I told about the shenanigans that are part and

 parcel of the jobs which are offered on the Internet.                                                                                                                    

I went into some detail about phony checks that I had received.  I received sly advances from a person whose name was definitely female who, when I blew the cover off what she had tried to do to me, figured that putting an amorous move on me would make me forget the "foreplay."  Once I learned the details of how the advances went, I started to have some fun of my own.  After all, turnabout is fair play.  The latest one turns out to be from Gmail and it is a warning that if you don't provide all your private information, your account will be closed in 48 hours.  Of course that's a dead give away.  Gmail does not have to know my age and the color of my hair and other particulars too ridiculous to mention.  It has been a long and twisting road.  It has been an interesting six months or so.  

Just before Christmas I stumbled on the name of the company whose home page advert heads this page.  I came to know the name through, believe it or not, an internet job search company.  Yes, there are tons of them.  They all look pretty much alike.  They're like twins, though.  After a while you learn to distinguish the honest ones from the sharks.  I actually found two honest ones.  One of them proposed this ISO Translations company to me.  I did my due diligence, contacted ISO, completed the mandatory skills tests and was accepted. 


Now, Paul, don't get excited.  this has happened to you before, remember?   However, this time I had a better feeling.  For one thing, the language of the correspondences was impeccable English.  American English, no less.  There was a true air of professionalism about it.  I decided to go to Google to see what I could find.  I went.  What I found was the clincher.  

There, right before my very eyes was the incontrovertible proof of the righteousness of this organization.  Page after page of vitriolic insults about the obscenely low rates that they pay.  WOW!  They pay!  They not only exist, they piss people off, just like any good employer would do.  I knew that I had found a real live one.  Truth to tell, I now know some other things about ISO.

1. They do have low rates.  They do pay.  I now know.

2. They go by Greenwich Mean Time schedules.  In California that is a hole of 9 hours behind.  

3. Mostly the jobs are allocated on a first come, first assigned basis.  Try that from a nine hour deficit.

4. They have a lot of work.

5. They are polite and attentive to their resources.

6. They have a neat state-of-the art communications system online.

7. My philosophy seems to be theirs too.  You know the one I'm talking about.  Offer to do the work that no one else wants and you'll always be busy.  Example:  The other night I jumped on a job that was all of about 125 words.  My mind is, if a huge company can accept a thimble full of work in the middle of the night, I had better be ready, willing and happy to take it too.  

The late George Woodworth would say, "It's all honest work."

MJT Dion would say, "The money's all green."  Really.  No matter where you find it, nor how much of it there is.

8. The Voice from the Kitchen says, so it is only  0.77 of a Euro.

Get enough of them and it will be 77.00 and then you'll be happy.

Don't you just hate that kind of talk?

9. Notice that they pay in Euros.  For once the exchange rate is in my favor. 1.00 Euro = $1.33.  

So there you are.  You now know that there is some honesty out there.  It took a long time to find it, but I did.  

Now I have to go.  I have some proof reading to do.  

SOME THINGS ARE IMPOSSIBLE

Yep. Believe it or not.  It is true.  I keep hearing this mantra about, "if you want it badly enough, you can get it."  Every time I hear that it makes my teeth grind and I get enamel dust all over my chin.  I, for one have some desires that I know will go unrequited.  I guess I must be some kind of slacker because I have come to be perfectly calm about it all.  I have a couple examples.  One was A.G.  A smaller than average boy whose father had been a professional baseballer in the minor leagues for many years.  Al is my age.  Maybe.  I think that the boy would spend 4 or 5 hours on the baseball diamond fielding ground balls, catching pop-ups [Yeah, I know, that's one of those words] and doing a bunch of other stuff.  It was nice for us too, because we would be there to practice with Al and his father.  You could tell that the father was dreaming big for his boy.  You could also tell that the boy's body would never carry him to the heights of his father's dreams.  It didn't.
I was lucky.  I didn't have that kind of "stage father."  One day when I was about 19 or 20, a knowledgeable person of some ability told me quite frankly that I had better concentrate on school because it was clear that I would never hit the curve ball.
There was a a similar day in my life when my father, you know, ol' EFR Dion, told me around the homework table that it was a good thing that I was fixin' to be a priest because with the math brain I had [have] it was about all I could ever do.  Dontcha love that kind of honesty?  Hey, it works.  It carried over all my life.  I knew that I couldn't be an engineer.  But then one day in the fourth year of high school, late in May, the director of the school told me, "You're going to pass Algebra.  We're going to give you a 70."  This was two weeks before the finals for the year.  It was a subtle way of saying that a priest didn't have to have the math brain of engineers, so I was a go-ahead.  It worked.  But then, I got to be around 36 years old and I had the opportunity to attend a community college.  I had the words of the Director swishing around in my head for going on 20 years at the time.  So I signed up for Algebra 101 despite having technically flunked high school Algebra.  What a stupid move!  I never worked so hard in my life.  But... there is a "but."  I also never spent so much time with three soooo pretty girls in my whole life.  OK, one of them is my cousin, but the other two weren't.  The two who were not related to me [still aren't] were ever so patient and so kind.  They were both whizzes and were in the class because  they needed the college level stuff for the final high school work before graduation.  I would like to say that we had fun, but I can't.  We worked hard every single class day for about 20 to 30 minutes after the session.  My cousin Laura, also a very good looking lady would spend about an hour and a half or so with me one night a week.  She was great.  Now, I don't know about the other two, but Laura is an engineer.  Me?  I got a "C":-(  but at least I proved something to the world. a) I passed Algebra 101;
b) Everybody was right, I am not engineering material.
So see, not matter what, there are some things that are impossible.

TRADITION - HOW IT'S MADE - 4 EXAMPLE -- :-)

This is a hot link to bishops Hanchon's blog

Yer gonna luv it.  The picture on the page here is one of the rarest things that you will ever see.  This picture was snapped by the good bishop of Detroit, Michigan, USA,  in Rome, on February 3, 2012.  He had better keep it for a long time because the wonder of it will not be seen again for quite a while.  Not if the laws of probability hold up anyway.  Talking about probability, here is a surprising thing about this particular effort of mine.  I was going about my business today, trying to catch up on stuff that had caught up to me from behind.  You know what I mean..."the faster I go the behinder I get."  But as all this was happening to me, or I was happening to it, I can't yet figure out which, I thought of the time that it snowed overnight in Rome.  I thought of it because the snow caps not too far from where we reside had just been refreshed a couple days ago and I thought of the Brazilians, Malagasy's, Filipinos, and various and sundry others from equatorial zones who were studying in the Eternal City who were having their first encounter with the white stuff from the sky.
So, based on that thought, here are two quick little fairy tales.
1. When we arrived in Rome, in October, one of the first things that we learned about the school schedule at the university was that there were no days off, except for November 1 + 2 and the Christmas season.  But there could be an exception...only one.  If the cupola of St. Peter's was ever covered with snow, tradition dictated that there would be no class sessions that day.  Now that was somewhat encouraging since it is generally known that Rome is at nearly 42 degrees north latitude.  About the same as New York.  What is less generally known is that the marine influences and other mysterious Italian Leprechaun machinations, it hardly EVER snows in Rome.  If you doubt that, Google this:  "Snow covered cupola of St. Peters, Rome."  Good luck.  
Since when that phenomenon happened while I was in my fourth year of Theology, I did not have a digital camera.  I didn't even have a camera.  There was a large accumulation of snow that time because it snowed all night.  St. Peter's was BEAUTIFULLY white.  Well, we knew that we didn't have to report to classes.  Wanna know a little secret?  The whole and entire city of Rome plus we don't know for how far around, just hibernated for three whole days while the sun did its damnedest to melt 5 inches of snow and open the place up again.  Nothing, repeat, nothing moved.  Classes?  Even the Jesuits couldn't make this stuff go away.  They call that a tradition?  It's the 100 year storm, that's what it is.  You don't have to be polite.  Just call it was it is.  I don't know why I thought of this, except the hills around us here.  I wonder about the coincidence of the snow in Rome just about 8 weeks ago and this thought.  Life is funny that way, I guess.  Heee.
        x/x/x/x/x/x/x/x/x/x/x/x
2. Remember, I said it snowed all night?  How'd I know that?  Easy. My classmates from those equatorial zones wouldn't let me retire.  We were on the roof top going crazy watching grown-ups acting like 5 year old children.  They thought that the angels and saints were shaking the dandruff out of their hair.  There were two guys from Spain, two from Brazil, four from Madagascar and the rest of us were grown ups from temperate zones.  If it had not been about 28 or 29 degrees F I think some of them would have taken some clothes off to rub it on parts of them where the sun rarely shone.  They were throwing it all over the place, rubbing it all over themselves, throwing themselves on the floor of the rooftop patio, sending us inside for more coffee, more towels and more blankets because they were so cold.  Fortunately for them it was a rather "cold" snow and not one of these freak sub-tropical storms when the ambient temp sits at around 33 or 34 and everything is soupy.  Nope this was a very wild 6 or 7 hours, I kid you not.  I wish the classmates that I have in Madagascar could read English.  I'd send this to them so that they could remember it too.  One of the interesting parts of the memory are the questions that they asked about snow.  How can you ski on it?  Why is it slippery?  How do you learn to play in it?  Why aren't the cars below moving?  What makes them slide out of control?  Can you "drink" it?  In your country do you go to school when it snows? [You do!]  
Some of them changed clothing twice and three times through the night.  They were sorely disappointed when it got to be about 4:30 or 5:00 and the snow stopped.  I thought they were going to cry.  
It was a good thing.  Reveille was 5:30 anyway.  So we ran downstairs and got ready for the morning prayer.  We had warned them that the Swiss Director of the house was not going to be impressed by a mere 13 centimeters of snow.  13 meters, maybe.  Nothing less!  So, droopy - eyed 20 somethings plodded their way through morning meditation and Mass that day.  The Swiss director was nice about it.  He did tell us not to venture too far away from the compound because the authorities were hoping that there would be few people out and about while they were sweeping the city clean of this strange white stuff.  I kid you not, Rome was paralyzed for three days.  5 inches!  St. Peter's wore the mantle for slightly less than two days, despite the fairly cold weather.  We think that the copper made it melt more quickly despite the fairly cold ambient air temperature.
I have many fine and fond memories about Rome.  This is one that always, always, makes me smile when it occupies my aging gourd.

TWEET, TWEET HEY

So, I've been gone for a few days.  Here are a couple "Tweets" to let you know where I've been, what I have done and what I failed to do, what I will remember to do again and what I remember not to repeat again.

Isn't this the Hula Queen?  Really,
she's Hapa - Anything

1. I went to Anaheim, California to attend a gala special Mass centered on the American Indian Culture.
This was to celebrate the upcoming canonization of Kateri Tekakwitha, the Mohawk maiden who died some 400 years go in the northeastern corner of North America. This picture captures the "sanctuary" with the presiding priest, an indigenous person who always celebrates the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass with his feathers in hand.  The music was Tom-tom and the procession into the worship space was danced in the American Indian way, keeping time with feet and body movements as dictated by the drum beat.  When American Indians are celebrating, they don't walk anywhere, they dance to get there.  What an attitude!  I love it. The Mass was very emotional.  I could really carry on, but I have another "Tweet" or two for you.
      :=: :=: :=: :=: :=: :=: :=: 
2. The evening before we went to a ramen (Ramen is Japanese for a sort of noodle soup.) house that #2 son wanted to taste again.  So we want.  Now you have to understand that ramen houses are holes in the wall, never to be confused with the much more upscale sushi bar.  Ramen houses are very likely to have steam pipes running overhead and all kinds of noises emanating from behind the counter [the kitchen, actually].  Ramen houses do not have any pretensions of being genteel.  No sireee.  They are "Popeye, the Sailor Man" kinds of places.  Good food?  If that's what you like.  Good prices?  Not on your life.  Ambience? That's good for the French.  So I had the #2, one-half size chicken ramen.  It was chicken, but I think that all the chicken it had was in the name.  What it lacked in chicken it made up for in salt. I haven't had anything this well preserved ever since I accidentally got a small swig of the Dead Sea.  I can still taste them both.
You can tell, that this is the one thing that I did that I will remember not to repeat again.

          x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x

3. Lastly, there's the story about the Marriott Hotel fish and chips that I had for dinner.  This was a magnificent opportunity to sit and enjoy the company of a person whom Belle and had not seen for many, many years.  it was for me a great opportunity for that reason and for the satisfaction that I always get to be in the aura of "old folks."  That is she, in the traditional shawl of the American Indian woman, standing there between me and next to the "Hapa-Anything" squaw.  She treated us to the dinner and it was wonderful.  We just sat there and enjoyed one another for the time that we were together.  We parted after the meal with promises to visit one another again soon.  Human beings always do that.  It's a rare occasion that we bid one another a "fond" Adieu and sincerely mean it.  The last time I did that was when Christina and I took our final leave.  It's a good read, even if I do say it about something I wrote.

Anyway it was a fine evening with Josephine.

The fish and chips, you ask?

Damn near killed me.  But I'm OK now.
This was the Marriott, not a ramen house!  Hmmmm.  
I won't sue.  Being with my American Indian friend and the fake "Hapa" can't ever be repaid anyway.

4. Oh, I forgot.  What I failed to do?  I failed to take my laptop with me so that I could write to you all.  I forgot it, I really did.  "Please believe me, let me go..."

DISILLUSIONED AT LIFE WHEN I WAS 17

I was driving home with the Voice from the Driver's Seat at about 23:45 and for some odd reason I flashed on the sport of bowling.  I think it was because I met a personal friend of mine who used to be a very proficient, semi-pro bowler a few hours ago.  How I discovered this is not really important tonight.  Right now the state of my mind is where it was when I also flashed on the discovery of what a 300 "perfect" game really is.  I was seventeen and I had been working at my new job, earning real money for the first time in my life.  I'm not kidding.  I was hauling down $0.75 per hour.  One day the "older guys" invited me out to go bowling with them on Sunday afternoon.  I was not sure that I should go because I had really never picked up a bowling ball yet in my entire life.  It was only Thursday, so I begged off and decided that first, I would go bowling with my own buddies to see what it really felt like.  None of us had ever done this, so it was rather pathetic.   I do admit that we did have a good time.  Since we did not know how to keep score, we just flailed away and laughed and giggled our way through about one hour's worth of nonsense.  When I got home, EFR Dion was having his customary sip of Cognac.  We got into a conversation.  It was about bowling, of course.  He asked how I had done and I told him that I thought that in three strings I had perhaps knocked down about 150 pins.  He laughed and he said, "You don't know how to keep score, do you?"  I admitted it.  While he sipped away, he took his trusty, ever present Shaeffer white dot, fine-line pencil and began to show me how to keep score.  Now I am not a mathematics whiz, but it soon became clear to me that bowling is a shyster's game. You've been exposed to my rant about getting A+ on a report card.  Now I know where it comes from.  It comes from bowling.  Bowling is a sham.  It is arithmetic trickery.  You throw the ball, knock all the pins down and that counts for ten.  Throw the ball again, knock all the pins down and that counts for 10 + 10 = 20.  Throw the ball again and knock down all the pins and that counts for 10+10+10 = 30.  So far so good.  Here's where it gets tricky.  Throw the ball again, knock down all the pins and that counts for 30+10 = 60.  Throw the ball again and knock down all the pins and now 60 + 10 = 90.  Now look.  If my $0.75 per hour clicked up that fast, do you suppose that I would be sitting here at 1:00 AM telling you this silly story?  When EFR Dion announced to me that a perfect 300 game was not knocking down 300 pins I knew that a politician had invented the scoring system in bowling.  The way the sharks have it figured out is that all you have to do to get credit for 300 is to knock down 120.  Now that is slick!  In fact, to remember Wee Willy Clinton, that is slicker'n slick!  I tell you, this still has me shaking my head.  It is the only game that you can say that you got a perfect 300 score when all you did was to perform at 40%.  How can you go through life with that on your conscience?  That means that if you got two perfect games in a row, you would have earned an A++ on your report card.  It's even worse than football, I think.  Imagine if in all honesty you would just say that the Patriots beat the Chargers 10 - 4 would that dim the effort of the Patriots?  Why go through the bamboozlement of saying 35 -12?  Such mental tomfoolery for nothing.
Anyway, that is my thought for now.  I do not bowl.  I don't have the stomach to get 100% credit for a 40% performance.  
Hey, don't get nervous.  It's just a thought!

TRUE LOVE DOESN'T FLEE

True love knows no time.  True love knows no distance. True love knows no boundaries.   True love knows no conditions.  
The "Terms and conditions of true love are nothing short of total abandon to the loved one."  True love doesn't know ego.  
True love doesn't know discouragement.  True love does not know resentment or revenge.  True love knows no pain.  True love knows no "senseless" suffering.  True love knows no poverty.  True love knows no richness but the fortune of itself.  
True love knows only life, in both of its forms.  True love lives on earth.  True love lives in heaven.  True love is international.  True love is multi-cultural.  True love is color-blind.  True love is even independent of language.  True love is universal.  True love doesn't know numbers.  
True love is not human.  True love is Divine.  True love lives under God's roof.
True love doesn't flee.   True love doesn't know despair.    
True love has but one desire, to give of itself without measure.  True love lives forever, it never dies. 
True love is not what makes the world go 'round.  It is what makes us happy for the ride.
True love doesn't take up any space, but it knows how to fill our hearts.  True love keeps our heart full and over flowing the more we give of it to others.   
All of the above are reasons why there is no picture today.

DION CULTURE -- COPACETIC

Here it is, straight from the mouth of EFR Dion's grandson.  We were talking together the other day and we were mentioning the Dion culture.  The conversation was about five minutes old when he threw out the defining word, the core word, "copacetic."  When he said it I knew that he had hit on it.  I knew that the osmosis had worked.  My eldest son, one of the youngest people in his generation of Dions, there is but one younger, my second son, knew his culture.  Now every family is a meld of two cultures.  Dions are a mix of the Franco American and my part of the Dion clan is a mix of Filipino American.  They are what we lovingly call Hapa-Pinoy.  
Dions always seek the copacetic.  Dions always seek smooth interpersonal relationships.  Dions always seek to bring comfort and pleasure to those around them.  One of the greatest pieces of advice I ever got came from a Dion.  He was at the center of my life when I was in the process of changing careers.  I was wailing about the people in the environment that I was leaving.  I wasn't very deep into my rant when he interrupted me and said, "All the people in that community had a common goal, including you.  You're not leaving because of them and their behavior.  You're leaving because you are not comfortable with the environment and you don't want to behave in a way that is copacetic with that environment."  I will never forget that.  The nine years of added  life and the requirements of conjugal community life that this uncle of mine had, gave me a nugget of wisdom that I would never forget.  It took me back to the family gatherings where everything was built around "copacetic."  Some of these gatherings were attended by people from the real French speaking half of my culture.  That didn't matter.  Everyone had a good time because when things are "copacetic" happiness and joy rule.  
This philosophy is not always easy on the system.  There are times when life is not copacetic.  There are times when copacetic does not rule...for a while.  But, in the end, it seems as though copacetic is a good guide.  It's something that I know that I will take to the grave.  That's why I'll be smiling all the time and convincing you that it is not copacetic to cry at my funeral.
AMEN!

LEPRECHAUN FIELD DAY IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

I have to do this.  It is still just a little past St. Patrick's Day and the Leprechaun's are still at it.  It is not the first time.  I find it strange that about one week ago I had a thought run through my head about two of the most exciting snowstorms that I had ever experienced.  We have been having a very dry Winter here in SoCal.  It is always disconcerting to have this happen.  If we do not get our 10 inches of rain before the end of April, we will be in baaad shape for water.  We are always in bad shape for water, but without the rain and the snow pack, it can go all the way to BAAAADD.  So, this year, to spare you the tears, though we could use them if you send them this way, I'll get right to my story.
One St. Patrick's day when I was still in grade school, maybe 1949 or '50 we got one good spanking by the snow Leprechauns.  My parents made all kind of jokes about the fact that it must have been caused by the fact that the mayor of Holyoke, Massachusetts was a Pole at the time.  Like I say, it was a good thrashing.  I think I remember something like 10 or 12 inches.  It was really something.  I can't remember if this caused the electorate of Holyoke to elect an Irish mayor the next time around.
The second one was when I was in Seminary in Enfield, New Hampshire, somewhere in the vicinity of 1955 or '57.  That year was a rather white one for us in that neck of the woods.  As it turned out, we got walloped with about 15 inches of the cold, dry, icy, grainy type of snow that falls when the temperature dips to the mid 20's.  It is so beautiful, but oh, what a pain!  Even in New Hampshire it took us a couple of days to clean the stuff up so that we could live comfortably.  I can't remember all the jokes we cracked over the time that we were cleaning up from the storm.  It's perhaps a good thing that a> I can't remember them, and b> they would not translate well from the "canoque" dialect into English anyway.
Well, what happened here was that on The Day, [March 17, natch] snow hit us in SoCal down to the 1,000 foot level.  We have been suffering for three days in weather that cuts right through us with a wind-chill factor of somewhere around 38F.  It's been raining all this time too.  It's almost enough to make us want to go back to the various tropical resorts that we came from.  You know, places like Van Buren, Maine; Burlington, Vermont; Timmins, Ontario; Buffalo, New York and such.  I did say, ALMOST, right?  I even forgot our friends who lived for ten years in the tundra of the Yukon.  
So, that's St. Patrick's day in my life.  I hope you all had a good one.  

BLING IS NOT WORTH IT

  I wrote this 
  six years ago.  
http://nocryingatmyfuneral.blogspot.com/2006/06/open-letter-to-parents-children-and.html 


I just reread it.  I knew I was right when I wrote it. I'm now very sure that I was right.  If it is possible, more right now than I was then. I should perhaps have entitled it, "If it doesn't insure your future, don't do it."



I know that it is strange when you wake up one morning and realize that thoughts that you had growing up make more sense than ever 50 years later.  Over the last few years I have been spending a lot of time in the Bible.  Now that is a little strange for a Catholic, I know.  But the one thing that has constantly grabbed me and will not let go is the recurring theme that the thoughts that were written 4,000 years ago about human behavior are the same today.  
THE SAME.  
"Why do you spend money for that which is not bread?" (Isaiah 55;2)
"You ask and do not receive because you ask amiss, that you may spend it on your pleasure." (James 4;3)
"Go your way.  Sell all that you have, give the proceeds to the poor, then come and follow me." (Mark 10;21)


It is hard to accept that we are in the same mindset about how to manage our financial affairs.  Our expectations about the power that money has to make us happy haven't changed either.  Money buys us a quick drink, a round on the dance floor a headache in the morning and a grouchy spouse.  That's a great return on investment.  It has ever been thus.  
So, my thought for today is already before you.  If you want to see what I wrote six years ago in the very first blog post that I created in my entire life, click on it and have fun.  Then offer a prayer for the couple for whom someone spent a fortune.  They need God, because the bling didn't work. 

HOW FAR IS FAR

That's a deep question.  I received an e-mail the other day and I opened it just now because I was busy doing something else for God. As it turns out I got a very touching communication from a friend who inhabits one of the four corners of the planet.  I know, it's a round planet.  But it so happens that this lovely person inhabits one of the "corners." The question has a lot to do with emotion.  The deep emotions that welled up in me while reading the narrative.  It was not like it was from afar.  After all my heart isn't that far away.  Neither is hers. It's not as though this is a strange feeling for any of us. We all have people whom we love living in one of the "corners" of the world.  Despite the wonders of communication that we have these days, there is nothing as close as a thought or a dream or an expression of love.  The thing is, I happen to have a fairly large number of these loving friends all over the place.  I mean, think of Brian or Paul in Australia.  Yes, Australia, and in fact, Tasmania.  Do you now that there are REAL Tasmanian Devils?
I know one of them! :-)!  Russia; Philippines, of course; Japan, Africa, like in Angola; Madagascar.  The fact that I can name them and remember them and still know that there is mutual love still burning in our hearts is quite a reality to carry around in my head.  Especially since there are some individuals who live three houses down whose name I know but wish I didn't.  So, whose farther away?  Sometimes it the one three houses down because that's the one who sets my breast afire and I have to keep remembering the second half of the greatest commandment "...Love your neighbor like you love yourself."  I don't have to do that for the Tasmanian lady.  Nor for the one who lives in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
Why do I hurt with and for the one suffering in the Philippines and feel pity for the "Three Houses Down" individual?  Yes, there is a difference between the two. This human mystery is important to me.  I believe in the communion of all people.  That should make the distance between me and everyone else the same.  Sadly, it doesn't.  So, I guess I have some work to do before I go horizontal for good.  You bet.
Finally, I have to tell you that this is the kind of spiritual introspection you get when you are Catholic and go to confession, like I did.  It's the greatest feeling in the world. It lights your fire.  Makes you reread Psalm 51 and makes you realize just how close you are to some and how far from others.  Best of all, it makes you resolve to make things more equidistant in your life.  Remember when you come to my funeral, I will have reached perfect equidistance, by default, of course.  Now tell me, what's to cry about that?

THE BARRIO CHAMPION OF "PUYOT-PUYOT"

I should be in bed but something happened tonight that I cannot let go. It all started when the Voice from the Kitchen and I were looking for a rubber band. Believe it or not, we do not have a single one in the house.  When we came to that realization, we both laughed and wondered how far we had both come from the days when there were "tons"of rubber bands in the house and around our wrists.  She told me the story of when she was a very little girl, less than 9 years old, she had a very long chain of rubber bands that she had won in the village-wide rivalry of a game called puyot-puyot. (POY-YOOT'-POY-YOOT')  It means "blow-blow" like you do when you want to blow out a birthday cake candle.  It an interesting little game in which each player places a rubber band on the table and then they blow on the rubber band to see who can "cover" the other's rubber band.  Sounds exciting, right.  I'm sure that it can be if you're 8 years old and doing a lot of winning.  So Belle was really good at this, so she says.  At this point, why would she embellish that fact?
But then this made me think of another thought.  When I was growing up and MJT Dion would tell stories about her husband's family, I would often ask myself how come she knew so much about them.  I would wonder why EFR Dion had not told the story first.  Yet, now here I am telling a story about Belle's childhood.  It took me 35 years to hear it.  Oh well, I guess when you come from such a small, ranch land village, the stories that would interest someone from the first world must be few and far between.  But the fact is, there are quite a lot of stimulating things for children that go on in those places.
So there you go.  I told you a story that was told to me.  I like to brag about her.  After all, I've never been the champion of anything, not even Puyot-Puyot!

LESS IS BETTER-- WILLIAM OF OCKHAM

Now you're going to hear about my Dell computer.

This is a short comment about my laptop computer.

If it were a "he" I wonder what I'd call the laptop then.

Would it be that I would say "My laptop can't come put he?"

As it turns out we all know that laptops go away when we stand.

Except that when the laptop is a Dell, then even if you sit

Your laptop will go away and you will wish it went to Hell.

So, com put her here, but be sure she's not a Dell

And if you err and that's really what she is, oh Hell!

You will see your laptop disappear while you work

And leave you sitting there feeling like a jerk

Because you will find that where a laptop should be

there will be a lap but sure as Hell it won't be a Dell.

Here's the story.  

Those of you who have attained a "certain age" can certainly remember the Three Stooges and the automobile that would not start. They call the automobile repair engineer and with frenetic gestures explain that the car won't start.  So they open the hood and he disappears from view for a few moments while to or three minor parts fly out from behind the raised hood. He reappears and tells one of them to try to make it start.  So Moe, I guess, goes out in front and cranks away, but to no avail.  The "expert" dives back into the inner bowels of the contraption and out fly some more substantial looking elements of what an automobile should need.  He then surfaces again and gives the same command.  Crank, crank, crank, NOTHING.  He disappears again and this time the parts that come out are truly essential...distributor cap, alternator, radiator, fan belt and a few more.  He is now greased up, sweaty and a bunch of other adjectives, not to mention almost dejected. There is a significant pile of essential automobile hardware piled up not too far from the car.  He does, however, give Moe the signal to give 'er a crank.  A good one this time.  The punch line is that after a half-turn of the crank that car nearly dances for joy, runs like a Swiss watch and everybody is happy.  The "Engineer" takes all the parts, throws then in the back of his donkey cart and leaves the happy Stooges dancing in ecstasy as he disappears into the sunset.

Turns out my Dell is like that.  Granted I only paid $450 for it some four or five years ago, but it has never been perfect, as computers are supposed to be.  The battery never worked, so I replaced it.  I had to pay half.  That made me very happy. The new battery, fresh from the Chinese factory, I think, worked like Ol' New York for all of about 6 weeks and died.  I figured that I would do without it.

Some 8 to ten weeks later, the DVD/CD drive which I hardly ever use anyway, proved to be useless, and noisy to boot.  I removed it, threw it out, went to Best Buy, spent $35.00 and got a perfectly wonderful plug-in through a USB port.  Three years later, it still works perfectly.  Last night, my computer started to slow down and then suddenly went dark.  I unplugged it, plugged it in again, pressed "go" and it went...75% and then went dark again.  So I pressed "go" again and this time it went to about 50% before going dark.  Hmmm.  I don't know why, but I suspected the battery.  Look, at 1:00 AM you can suspect anything.  There's no one around to ridicule and disparage you, so you think what you think and do what you do and the full moon be damned.  So I removed the battery, pressed "go" and the sweetheart has sped up faster than ever and is running as slick as snot every since.  It's a good thing that they have electricity in all those third world countries like France, Italy, Spain, Germany, Austria and the likes of them. Who needs a battery anyhow? That's when I thought of the Three Stooges.  So that's my computer story.  The little doggerel at the top of the piece is something that I did before diving into bed for my overnight snooze. 

So whatever you do, be sure that when you sit, your lap has a top and that when you stand, your top has no lap. If it's a Dell, you won't have far to look...It's stuck in the trap that usually has other purposes than processing electronic data.

VICTUALS --- REALLY?

WEE_AXOLOT

Here we are in language again.  I have been doing a lot of translating lately and so my mind gets filled with so many words and sentences and genders and what preposition goes here and what one would make it a hanging participle, etc.  So today I had a word run through my mind, out of the blue.  Believe it or not it was during a moment of distraction from a French project that I was drowning in.  What surprised me was that it is a short word.  Not one of the sesquepedalian gems that I usually think of.  You know what?  Microsoft doesn't even know how to spell sesquepedalian.  I want my money back.  So it is a short one this time.  People from Massachusetts don't have too much trouble with this one because there are at least two warehouses that I know of in the eastern part of the state who claim to be victualers.  Now, I'm on a roll.  Microsoft doesn't know that word either.  So I leave it up to you to look it up.  Right now I am not in the mood for victuals.  I am in the mood for feeding my raging concupiscence...but that isn't going work because it is too late ad I have to get up early.  Besides, as I write this, my computer is developing into a story of its own.  If it still alive by tomorrow, I'll tell you all about it. I have to talk to Jo-El about a You Tube possibility about this Dell.  Anyway, let's hope that we are all able to get vertical tomorrow.

OUR ALMOST GRAND AUNT DIED OF A BROKEN HEART

I haven't written in 24 hours because, believe it or not, I actually have gainful employment.  It is not anything like the Joe Lunchbucket stuff I used to do.  I sit at home and work at my desk and do a lot of writing and stuff.  (90 percent of it for God)  You remember the grouchy stuff I sent you about the crooks that proliferate on the Internet.  It was all true.  But for the last three and one half months I have been connected to an international translation service that is honest and slavery oriented.  But, I am a good slave and $0.03 per word is better that a slice a bread and three glasses of water for the day.  Anyway, lately I have been super occupied because the customers that we have are finicky about getting their stuff back on the date that we promised it to them.  Sheesh!  Do these people really live on this planet?  So, enough of that.
Along the way, I received a stunning email from my brother.  The one who said that he loves me and that he will respect my wish that no one cry at my funeral.  So he will drop one tear, he said and stop.  Actually, that will be the one that he will wring out of himself in sorrow.  The flood will come after when he realizes what just happened and cry all night because he's laughing so hard.  Wow, it's tough to stay on topic tonight.  He sent me a story about a great aunt that we almost had but who died before it could come about.  She was engaged to our Grandmother's brother.  His name was Désiré Joyal.(Please notice the single "é" at the end.) He was in the army and he was on his way home from wherever it was that he had been assigned. I suppose that it was Europe and that it was WW 1.  Anyway, he was on the ship returning to the US.  He took sick.  Went from bad to worse and then some, so he never made it back.  This lady fell into a deep dark depression, never really recovered and some time later (I don't know how long) she too died.  A real, historic story of a person dying from a broken heart.  Now I know that this happens.  Here's how.  I saw quite a few people die from what the doctors would tell me is "hysterical depression."  I haven't Googled this, so take it for what it is worth.  I would see people, most of them female, and most of them, in fact all those whom I knew, less than thirty years old.  Something would distress them so much that they would fold in on themselves and die in something less than a year.  A couple of the girls who did this sort of thing did it because of a love gone awry. I am not aware that this happens much any more in the first world in which we live (or think we do), but it must.  Anyway, I had to tell you the story because it is one about which we hear stories and hear songs, but rarely have to admit that it could ever happen to us.  "Qui? Moi?"
So, that's it for tonight.  I have to continue building the novena for this month.  The novena to Our Lady of LaSalette.  I do it online every month.  If you don't get it but would like to spend a few prayerful moments, let me know.  This month I am featuring the environment.  After all, it is Springtime, right?

DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN?

FIRST RAW FISH?  1971
FIRST RAW CALAMARI?  1962

Your first word in your second language? 1940, or so I was told.  My first word did not happen until 1939 [14 months old, I was!]
Your first black eye? 1941  [Not in a fight. An accident.]
Your first brush with death by gunshot?  1941 [At home]
First day of school?   1942
Lines for nylon stockings you were in?  1944
First chicken you plucked?   1945
First chicken you killed?   1946
Your first dog?  1949
Your only dog?  1949
Your first cat?   1995
Your only cat?   1995
Your first air-raid blackout?  1941
Your first snow experience?  1942
You first met your new neighbor after moving? 1942
Your first hurricane?   1944
Your first earthquake?  1945
End of WW-2 in Europe?  May, 1945
End of WW-2 in Japan?    Late 1945
Your first Christmas tree decoration? 1946
Your first ironing board project?  1948  [Handkerchiefs]
Your first boiling an egg experience?  1946
Your first game on an "organized" team? 1949
Your first crush?  1950 [I even remember her name]
Your first date?  1952  [I remember her name too]
Your first fist fight?  1944
Your last fist fight?  1951
Your first drink?  1950  [It's a short story]
Your first baby sitter? 1942 [I remember her name]
Your first "personal" radio?  1949
Your first card game?  1942  [War "Battaille" with my Maternal Grandmother]
Your first board game? 1943 [Checkers with my Maternal Grandfather -- Nobody could beat him, nobody]
Your first driver's licence? 1963
Your first job?  1950  [Digging a ditch for Ted's Auto Body Shop -- $0.25 per hour]
Your first professional sporting event?  1946  [Boston Red Sox vs. St. Louis Browns, doubleheader, split]
Your first car?  1975
Your first trip to a foreign country?  1955 [Mexico]
Your first airplane ride?  1955  [DC 6 -- NY - San Diego -- 2 stops, Chicago and LA -- 14 hours]
First auto accident?  1967
First fish caught on a hook?  1944
First Pow-wow? 1955
Received American Indian Name, Narragansett?  1956 [Great Walrus]
Coldest temperature in my life?  -22 F
First time to see Aurora Borealis?  1951
First time to see an airplane without a propeller?  1948
Your first US passport?  1961
Your first time to turn 75 years old?  Yesterday!

"COLUMBUS" LIVES ON

If this appears ethereal, there is a reason.  There is a story here.  You bet!  This cat represents one of the lives that a cat named "Columbus" has.  It was yesterday, Sunday, after Mass, when I was walking back home and was still about one hundred yards away from the house.  From behind me, over my left shoulder a slinky, tight-bodied, tall and elongated feral cat with a long, stiffly held tail and a determined demeanor gained on me and passed me by without so much a "by-your-leave."  He, I prefer to think it was a "he" for the purpose of this story, slid off to the left through a hedge and proceeded to go toward the garbage disposal area of the houses in the neighborhood.  The neighborhood used to  have brigades of feral cats.  Many of them were the offspring of a household cat that we once had.  His name was "Christopher" when we got him as a three month old kitten.  I am not a believer in names for animals, but the children and Belle insisted that the cat had to have a name.  I said, "OK, but not 'Christopher.'"  You can tell that "Columbus" was a rather easy logical step for them to take in their naming game.  It was also decided that the cat was to be an outside cat and a vermin hunter.  Truth to tell, this worked out rather well.  For about a year.  After that the cat population began to swell perceptibly and the amount of food that they were consuming became more than somewhat considerable. Table scraps, of course.  I have a rule about feeding cats and dogs.  "If you're hungry, go kill something."  Lazy cats that these were, they even learned to eat rice and vegetables, left-overs from last week.  I found out that this was happening when I couldn't find my rice and Brussels' sprouts one day. My mother-in-law got an earful that day.  But we laughed it off.
Now the cat population, as it grew, took on a certain hue that indicated that "Columbus" was one busy guy.  The promiscuity of that "animal" was legendary.  The whole mile-long ridge of Linda vista was crawling with ash-grey cats.  Directly engendered by one, "Columbus," I'm veery sure.  The comical [and frustrating part for me] was that they were finding the major part of their sustenance in our back yard, thanks to "Lola."  There even came a time when we no longer saw "Columbus" for weeks on end.  He had turned into a "C & E" pet.  This went on for a long time.  Some years passed until one day, late in the afternoon, we saw "Columbus."  Laid out in the back yard, rigor mortis was evident already.  He had come back home to die.  Just as in the stories that we have all heard and disbelieved, that cats always come home to die.  He did it.
Now, the rest of the ferals didn't care.  They still wanted to eat without having to hunt.  They got fed for a few more years until Lola [Grandma and second mother to our boys] became incapacitated and could no longer feed the herd. ["Herd" is not the correct term, but you know what I mean.]  The result was that the population went down, but the count of the ash-grey offspring was still holding its own.  By yesterday, we were at least seven years distant from the incapacitation of Lola.  So, I am writing this to celebrate the fact that there is at least one tough looking Tom carrying the "Columbus" gene to the fair damsels, and surely, to the unfair ones too.  "Columbus" was a rather cuddly guy.  This descendant is a "Terminator."  I am convinced that he peels rust scales off of old car parts for breakfast.  So, good job, "Columbus."  You timed it just right, Ol' Buddy. You showed up in my mind through your Avatar on my last day in the neighborhood before I turn 75.
If there are any of you who believe in coincidence, give it up.  It's more fulfilling to believe in Providence.  That way, you'll always have a connection to the higher things in life.
This is not what I was going to talk to you about tonight, but this has been more fun.  Besides, by tomorrow, I will have 24 hours of experience at my new age.  By then I'll be an expert at it and will be able to tell you in great detail about how it feels.