Sooner or Later

A headline from "The Onion," which I like: "Woman Dies of Lost Cell Phone."

-Old Gargoyle

Looks Familiar

When did "Mad" Magazine's Alfred E. Neuman grow up and become the Governor of Illlinois?

-Old Gargoyle

Mooody

It's official---I have mad-cow's disease. What a way to start 2009! I guess Denny Crain (on "Boston Legal") and I now have something in common. But, seriously, my bellowing strongly bothers the little woman.

-Old Gargoyle

Vati Can or Can't?

A few years ago, just for the heck of it, I wrote three different congregations (departments) in the Vatican asking for a job. A couple of things about their replies surprised me. First, the "slowpoke" Vatican took only two weeks to reply. The three departments said they had no openings, but still asked me if I could speak and write languages other than English (it still helps to know foreign languages, especially Italian, to work at the big show). Second, remember that the "medieval" Vatican was years ahead of similar central religious headquarters---e.g., America's National Council of Churches in Washington, the World Council of Churches in Geneva, the Eastern Orthodox Ecumenical Patriarchate in Istanbul---in installing and widely using computers. Imagine my surprise, then, when each of the three replies arrived as as aerogram, that razor-thin, see-through, feather-light, cheap paper which is simply folded into its own envelope and stamped. Moreover, the reply on each aerogram was typed on an old-fashioned MANUAL typewriter, the kind whose keys leave the imprinted words half-broken and uneven on the lines. Yet each reply was polite, apologetic, articulate, and typed and signed by a nun secretary. What is this? I asked myself. I imagined these nuns in small, cramped, dark offices opening business mail hour after hour, and producing their replies on dingy, 1950ish typewriters, while the monsignors and bishops in their large offices down the hall had access to florescent lighting and 2000ish computers. Well, at least there were, I can safely assume, no dumb blonds among the former.

-Old Gargoyle

Answering the Call

When I answer my telephone, I say logically only "Proceed." The caller always is temporarily confused or silent. How did he or she expect me to answer---by using some strange word whose etymology has to do with eternal damnation?

-Old Gargoyle

Birds of (or without) a Feather?

I decided to do it when I walked out the department store. I had gone into it to do one of my several returns of Christmas gifts (I enjoy giving hassle to the clerks, and like receiving the cash in return). Anyway, when I stepped back out to the store's front door, I looked up and pointed up into the sky, saying loudly enough for passerby customers to hear me, "Hey, look at those dead birds. Awww, more dead birds---poor things---must be the winter." Those customers, of course, kept looking into the sky trying to see the "dead birds." I resumed my walk to my car, and departed.

-Old Gargoyle

Language 5: No Free Lunch

I'm refusing any more from store clerks, from stores via the mail, etc. I'm sick and tired of being offered or sent "free gifts." Jeez, has anyone ever heard of an unfree gift? A gift by definition is and must be free. "Gift" itself is from the Latin "gratus" ("free," "grace" [i.e., unearned; no cost] ). Just offer or give me a gift, okay? Which in turn reminds me of the violation of "gratuity" on my restaurant-meal bill. Some restaurants charge me a MANDATORY 10 or 15 percent "gratuity." Damnit, change its name, then, from "gratuity" or "tip" to "tax"---it's then a TAX. And, waiter, just don't you dare give me a "free gift" with my mandatory-tip meal bill.

-Old Gargoyle

Language 4: Take Two Aspirin

It wasn't that long ago that people took medicine. What I mean is that the word, "medication," was unused, because it was totally unnecessary. People's physician prescriptions were for "medicine"; you took "medicine"; no one had "medications"---it was as simple as that. Why the increep of "medication" into the language? Today I made a vow; I vowed to begin using "medication" the day Harvard's or Yale's College of Medicine changes its name to College of Medication. "College of Medication": sounds silly doesn't it? My point is made.

-Old Gargoyle

Har-Har Harvey

Veteran actor Harvey Keitel has a new television crime series, "Life on Mars"; "Harvey Milk" with Sean Penn is a current movie; "Last-Chance Harvey" starring Dustin Hoffman is a new movie. Is the name, "Harvey," "in" at last? Will parents now be naming their boys Harvey? Will it be "Harvey this" and "Harvey that" in the news? It just might be time for me to start using my middle name in public in order for me to maintain some individuality---which means that I'll now have to hope that "Vonrasputin" doesn't eventually catch on.

-Old Gargoyle

The Meek Shall Inherit

The neighborhood kid received a yapping new dog for Christmas---just what we neighbors need. Made me think: If dogs ever take over the world, and they choose their king, I hope they don't go just by size, because I bet there are some chihauhuas out there with some really good ideas.

-Old Gargoyle

I Hate This Grass, I Tell You

It's probably the damn, questionable eggnog from Christmas. I think I've contracted mad-cow disease. I'll get back to you later on this.

-Old Gargoyle

Dr. Jeckle and Dr. Hyde

"What is the definition of 'paradox,'?" I like to ask my students, especially the blond girls.

"A paradox is like two opposite things?" is the typical question-like answer.

"Oh," I'd say, "you might be right. I always thought a paradox was two physicians." That's usually acceptable to the blond.

Now I've come across the Tristram Shandy paradox in a book on philosophical and scientific arguments on cosmology. This paradox is one of those mind-bending explanations of the nature of time, and has been used by the famous atheistic philosopher-physicist, Bertrand Russell. I have trouble grasping it, though it's delightful. It's named after an Englishman's book of, I think, the 1800s; and, to my surprise, a British movie, "Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story," was made on it a couple of years ago. Anyway, try to find the Shandy paradox for your own reflection. I don't think I'll bother mentioning it to my blonds.

-Old Gargoyle

Popeye Boyle

Have you seen or read the new television or newspaper ads for dentures featuring actor Tony Curtis? Tony isn't a spring chicken; in fact, he looks as if he's already embalmed. Still, with young chicks hanging on his arms, his ads make me want to buy some choppers just to be like Tony. We recently lost Paul Newman; Dom Deluise (one of my favorites---yes, Dom Deluise) has cancer; Peter Falk has Alzheimer's; Kirk Douglas and others can't last much longer; even Sean Connery is retired. But Gene Hackman, though putting on the years, still seems to appear in a supporting role in every third or so film released. Gotta admire Gene; he probably eats his spinach. He should take some time off. But then we'd miss that sardonic chuckle he does in every one of his movies.

-Old Gargoyle

The Zero Effect

"What do you want for Christmas?" the little woman asked me a couple of weeks ago.

"Well," I said, "you know what they say, 'What can you buy for a person who has everything?'"

"No, seriously," she replied, "what do you want for Christmas?"

"As I said," I repeated, "what can you buy for a person who has everything?"

On Christmas morning, I gave Jonka a new vacuum cleaner. She gave me nothing.

-Old Gargoyle

A Real Nut Case

I very much like---don't laugh---Christmas fruitcakes. The problem is I just don't see them around anymore. So, reader, if you send me a fruitcake in the next two weeks, I'll highlight you in a special blog, and appoint you as a Young Gargoylite, a helper to the Old Gargoyle. Then come early December 2009, if any '08 fruitcake remains unopened and uneaten or even partially eaten, I'll mail it to you as a gift.

-Old Gargoyle

Snow Bunnies

It will be 40 years ago next week that I took my first airplane flight. I flew a thousand miles to meet the little-woman-to-be in her home town of Cleveland. At Cleveland's airport and at the city's downtown, I was overwhelmed with the snow and blizzard, the first time I had been in such an environment. Soon thereafter, Jonka and I drove in her car in snow from Cleveland to Niagara Falls. When we were crossing the long, ice-covered bridge from New York into Ontario, I frightfully noticed that our car began swaying from side to side, and that we were losing speed and traction as other drivers passed us with their angry horn blowing. "What's happening to us, little-woman-to-be?" I cried out. "Well, er," she replied, "my, uh, tires are bald." Ye gads, no snow tires! We barely made it into Niagara Falls, itself quite a sight with its water and surrounding hotels all covered by the thick white stuff. Then, in some kind of cruel attempt to "cure" my apprehension toward all this wet coldness, Jonka urged me to try what a few people in history have attempted, namely, going over the falls in nothing but a barrel. Yeah right. It was at that breaking point that I began to strangle her---unsuccessfully because of her heavy parka and because of the quick interference by nearby Japanese tourists. Today she and I can look back and laugh at this. But when even light snow is predicted (seldom) for our area, little-woman-have-become mysteriously leaves our house for a few days.

-Old Gargoyle

Make Time for Others

I was wondering: If time machines are ever perfected, and if, while you're traveling into the future, you meet someone who's traveling back from the future, do you for that split second have to greet that person?

-Old Gargoyle

The Same to You, Buddy

I've always been puzzled about the inconsistency in road signs. Why, for example, are many highway-name signs in some states so doggone small? I'm looking for, say, Highway 502, and I find myself in the wrong turning lane and only 30 or so feet from it, because its sign is in bland black and white and too small to be seen at a distance. And why are the all-important one-way signs in every state made in the same style: black and white and tiny and fading into the background? You'd think such signs would be large and bright yellow like some others, in order to prevent head-on collisions. Yesterday in protest I deliberately drove two miles the wrong way on a one-way street. Judging by the car honking by drivers I crisscrossed, they agreed with my protest. Now to convince the state department of transportation. Wish me luck.

-Old Gargoyle

Gregory Peck

I like this cartoon: A large falcon swoops down into the opening in the woods and grabs a small rabbit as food. Back up in the air, the rabbit, now in the falcon's claws, says to the bird, "You big bully! Why don't you pick on someone your own size?" The cartoon is titled "To Mock a Killingbird."

-Old Gargoyle

Spiritual Spinach

Jeez, the homilists (preachers) at my Sunday religious services during this Advent have five weeks or so to do some meaningful preaching about Advent-Christmas. Think of the possibilities: the latest historical scholarship on when and where and under what circumstances Jesus was born, plus the faith and theological meaning of all this; the latest historical scholarship on the Parousia (the physical return of Christ at the Eschaton, the End Time), plus the faith and theological meaning of this combined with contemporary scientific facts and theory on the termination of Earth and the universe; the latest historical scholarship on now the child and the adult human Jesus saw himself in his political-social-religious context in Israel, plus the faith and theological meaning of this. But what do I get? Homilies (sermons) which keep reminding me that I have to prepare my heart for Christmas, and that I have to say "Merry Christmas" instead of "Happy holidays." Maybe I'll do one of those things, maybe not. I feel like a droopy Popeye needing a good canful of zap. Happy holidays!

-Old Gargoyle

Dead Man Walking

I gave in. After watching for months on television a commercial for those small, wheelchair-like scooters for the elderly, I ordered one. I don't need one---it simply looked like a fun way to move around. I already suspected some shadiness about the advertised company which promised to obtain a scooter for me at no cost for me. Surely enough, with only some insurance payment, my scooter arrived in the U.P.S. delivery van. Man oh man. I began riding my scooter back and forth through the house, riding it up and down my driveway, riding it down on the sidewalks around the neighborhood, riding it to the stores, riding it to church, to the theater, etc. I love that scooter; I've nicknamed it Scooter. The litle woman can't pry it from me. I even sleep in it. Tomorrow Jonka will drive me to my doctor's office; my legs have atrophied.

-Old Gargoyle

Krusty

Human-interest stories abound during this holiday season. You know what I think would make a good story? Something about a clown who makes people unusually happy, but inside he's real sad. Also he has migraines.

-Old Gargoyle

FIeld of Dreams

And now about me old pappy. My father would take me and my brother with him hunting in the woods. Dad attempted year after year to teach me to shoot his rifle and shotgun well enough to hit at least a stationary target if not a duck or something. Try as I might, I just couldn't hit anything. And he attempted to have me throw a baseball without it constantly flying wildly into someone else's yard (after all, he himself as a young man was the star pitcher in his rural-region amateur league). I just couldn't chunk the old ball; my Little League coach assigned me to first base so that I wouldn't have to throw to anyone. So when my father died years ago, what did he leave me? His old guns and his old amateur-league baseball. Go figure.

-Old Gargoyle

Turn Your Radio On

December brings celebration of Christmas. For me, December also brings commemoration of my late mother's birthday, which in turn reminds me of her death day. She died in late July years ago. I was driving my family home from her funeral and burial. Everyone in our van was silent; suddenly I had the impulse to turn on the car radio with the intution that it was important to do so. I did so, and the song which immediately sounded was "Angels We Have Heard on High." We were flabbergasted. Why in the world was a Christmas song playing on the car radio in the summer heat of late July? Then it struck me: "Angels We Have Heard on High" was my mother's favorite song which as a teenager she would sing in the choir in the very church through which we had just buried her. Hi, Mom.

-Old Gargoyle

Wrys

Wow. I just read that the Philippine Islands, which used to export most of the world's rice, now has to import it because of rising fuel costs, declining rice farms, world economy, etc. Rice is the Philippinos' staple food; its lack can lead to widescale social-political riots in the Islands. I too could eat rice on a daily basis. I bought Mahatma and Uncle Ben's brands for years; then I heard about, but can't find, this new Condoleeza Rice. The little woman pours milk onto her rice in a bowl, and eats it that way. Ughh, what a cold, bland way to treat a bowl of the good stuff. Jonka is a yankee.

-Old Gargoyle

Say It Ain't So, Ev

I love this one; you gotta check it out: Access "The Onion Newspaper" on the Internet, then find the article entitled "Evander Holyfield Claims His Quest for Severe Brain Damage Keeps Him Fighting."
Heck, I myself have often considered doing the same thing as the champ.

-Old Gargoyle

Eagle Eye

Jonka and I were looking at her flowers in the frontyard. Suddenly something screeched through the air, and latched onto the head of the little girl playing in her yard across the street! The girl began screaming and trying to remove it. I had to laugh, because what IS that thing?

-Old Gargoyle

Sing, I Said---Sing

Catholics don't sing at their religious service on Sundays. Oh, some of them mumble mumble, but otherwise they leave the singing to their choir, if their service has one. Why don't they sing? Thomas Day, in his book, "Why Catholics Can't Sing: The Culture of Catholicism and the Triumph of Bad Taste," has his opinions. Compare this Catholic phenomenon with that of Protestants at their Sunday service: The latter sing the roof off their church. Others think the answer might be found in Christmas songs. Why don't American adults tire of hearing and singing both religious and secular Christmas songs over and over and over? They love these tunes because, some say, they learned and loved them when they were children. The positive emotional impact of Nativity music thus lingers in the hearts of Americans. Back to Protestants: Almost all of their Sunday songs haven't changed from their childhood---thus they enjoy hearty singing from memory. On the other hand, middle-age and older Catholics (the majority of church goers) have little or no religious music remaining from their childhood---thus they can't "get in the mood" of the contemporary songs. And the contemporary songs don't compare in majesty, some think, to the older ones; so these songs appeal to much-younger Catholics but not to the older. Maybe only Christmas songs, therefore, should be sung at every Sunday Mass in the Catholic Church from now on.

-Old Gargoyle

Cold, Hard Facts

I heard a voice last night, maybe God's voice, maybe an alien's---I don't know. But it kept saying "Fitzgerald." Since "Fitzgerald" doesn't sound like "Rosebud," I knew it wasn't a message about movies. Then it hit me. I had overlooked an important commemoration in November: the late 1970s sinkage of the freighter ship, made famous in Gordon Lightfoot's song, "The Wreck of the 'Edmund Fitzgerald.'" The giant freighter sunk in an surprisingly hurricane-like nighttime storm on Lake Superior. The little woman and I were living in Cleveland, the "Edmund's" destination, at the time. If I remember correctly, she lost a distant cousin, one of the crew's members, all of whom drowned. It was a sad day. The Great Lakes are shallow, and storms erupt unexpectedly; winter ones there are even more dangerous. Listen, to me, readers. If you're thinking of vacationing or otherwise visiting the North Coast (yes, we have a North Coast: the Great Lakes region) this or any winter, DON'T DO IT! For God's sake, it's utterly dangerous! Stay away---repeat---STAY AWAY from the North Coast! Maybe tonight I'll no longer hear "Fitzgerald."

-Old Gargoyle

On a Mission from God

Christmas music on my local radio and t.v. stations began in MID-NOVEMBER this year! Americans will exhaust themselves "celebrating" Christmas even before the day arrives. What nonsense! We're not in the Christmas season in November-December---we're in the Advent season. We shouldn't even begin celebrating Christmas until December 25, and THEN continue for a few weeks thereafter. In fact, this is what I used to do with my students: In early January, I would have them gather with me at a particular place in town. Then we would spend the next week or so walking block after block through neighborhoods. We'd knock on many a house door. When the resident would open the door, we'd yell, "Here's your blasted Christmas tree which you prematurely discarded on your treelawn. Take it back now! Re-erect it in your living room, and let it stand for another month. Christmas season has JUST BEGUN!" My students and I spend several nights of every January in jail.

-Old Gargoyle

Feelings

I was listening to a sermon on t.v. It made me think. You know, it takes a big man to cry. But it takes a bigger man to laugh at that man.

-Old Gargoyle

Language 3: But Exactly How Many?

I just can't take it anymore. "It" is our society's godawful, excessive use of "a lot of" and "lots of." What's wrong with people? Can't they remember simple grammar from elementary-school days? I no longer hear, even from professional broadcasters, the words which always expressed the exact or near-exact amounts people had in mind, viz., "none," "few," "some," "many," "most," "all." Now it's only "a lot" of this and "a lot" of that, whose meaning is so ambiguous as to be meaningless. Worse, people say, e.g., "a lot of choices," when listeners know that the range of choices is limited to three or four. Jeez, if two or three or four constitute "a lot," then what in the world do we call dozens or hundreds---"a lotest"? Let me tell you what happened to me last week. I was driving on a country road when I saw a large sign stuck in the ground of an adjacent field. My car screeched to a halt on the road's shoulder, and I sat at the wheel, my hands shaking, my eyes rolling around in circles, my heart pounding. Why? Because the sign read "Lots for Sale." "Arrrggh!" I thought to myself as I stopped my car, "Lots of what? And whatever is for sale, how much in the hell is 'lots of'? Has it come to this?" Then it struck me: Here was a rare, public, correct use of "lots," as the sign meant "Property ['Lots'] for Sale." I relaxed, quieted my nausea, and proceeded to drive. Later, I called the sign's owner, and bought a lot. I can't afford the lot, and I don't know what I'll do with it. But at least I wanted to contribute to the cause of correct use of "a lot." Now, stay tuned, because I do have lots more of such stories.

-Old Gargoyle

Please Use Airmail First Class

Last week the Vatican announced that, on behalf of B-16 (Pope Benedict XVI), it is apologizing for having criticized the Beatles some FORTY years ago for having said that they (the Beatles) were more popular than Jesus. I remember that around that time I went to confession to a Jesuit priest at a college. When I entered the confessional, I was surprised to find that not only was his back to me, with the screen separating us, he had on his lap two large bookkeeping ledgers. He proceeded to do accounting calculations with his calculator and pen while hearing (I guess) my confession! Heck, not merely surprised---I found this insultive. So I'm writing to the Vatican requesting an apology on behalf of this anonymous priest. I guess it might arrive around 2048.

-Old Gargoyle

Let's Talk Turkey

When my brother was stationed in Trabzon, Turkey, he was able to go into town only twice a month. That was enough time, though, for him to learn a bit of the local language. He relayed to me how to say in Turkish, "Have a happy Thanksgiving this year with your family and friends." It goes like this; I hope I repeat it accurately for you: "GOB-ble, GOB-ble, gob-BLE, GOB-ble, gob-BLE, gob-BLE."

-Old Gargoyle

The Other Green Meat

Sooner or later it's going to happen. Contact with extraterrestrial intelligent creatures (aliens) will be made on a public scale or a private one. I hope it's private---i.e., that their small flying saucer would land or crash in the back field of MY farm, and I could get the jump on those little boogers. I just hope they taste like chicken.

-Old Gargoyle

Haunted

Well, it finally happened. I was watching one of those all-news t.v. channels this afternoon when the screen went to not a two-way but a three-way split, allowing three of those dime-a-dozen commentators to appear simultaneously. It so happened all three were young blond women, all the same age, all wearing their bleached hair in the same long style, all looking alike, all sounding alike, all saying the same things previously said by better-known commentators. I couldn't help myself as I burst into song, "Three blond mice / Three blond mice / See how they run / See how they run . . . " I frightened my parakeet.

-Old Gargoyle

Gutter Talk

Debris . . . trash . . . leaves . . . garbage . . . gum wrappers . . . sticks . . . vote-for-Hillary posters . . .
house-for-rent signs . . . dead flowers . . . nails . . . I.R.S. notices . . . cheerleader-lives-here sign . . .
small stones . . . yard-of-the-week sign . . . bottle caps . . . beer cans . . . hub cap . . . store receipts . . .

-Old Gargoyle

How Many Fingers Do You See?

I remember the day and instance with exactness. I was 12, standing in my frontyard on a fresh spring morning. The grass tickled my little toes, so I looked down, and voila, I saw it: a three-leaf clover. The beloved, rare three-leaf clover! Lucky me! But wait---if one, then maybe more. I looked at the entire batch of grass in which I was standing---it was ALL three-leaf clovers! Alleluia! What incredible luck---the jackpot! Thank you, God! And then it hit me: It's four-leaf, not three-leaf, clovers which are rare. I immediately sank back into my natural pessimism. Was this a cruel divine joke for not having cut the grass this week? But then I quickly realized: Maybe for a good reason the Holy Trinity itself is three, not four, Persons. Saint Patrick and his shamrock had it right.

-Old Gargoyle

Burp

The favorite soft drinks for me and my classmates when I was a kid were Delaware Punch, Grapette, Creme Soda, and R.C. Cola. It's difficult to find any of these brands today, as they certainly are no longer very popular. Instead, we have the sissy, all-taste-the-same Coke, Pepsi, and 7-Up. But my older drinks were those which helped make us the so-called Greatest Generation---well, at least the coattail-enders. Bring 'em back, I say! Stock schools' soft-drink machines with these bottles, and watch our kids grow to be tough and patriotic!

-Old Gargoyle

Ten Huttt

I just finished watching a t.v. commercial for the Salvation Army. Most people don't realize that the Salvation Army is not just a social-service organization---it's technically a denominational church, an offshoot of the Methodist Church. The Sal Army does a good job of feeding and sheltering the needy. It made me think. Maybe I could kill two birds with one stone. As an old Selective Service draft dodger, maybe I could compensate for that, while satisfying my interest in religion, by voluntarily joining the Salvation Army. I'm gonna try for major, but with my past record of helping the poor, I might have to settle for corporal or sergeant. I don't have my own bell to use, but I do have a windchime which the little woman hates.

-Old Gargoyle

Timberrrr

I like tall trees. Even before the emphasis on ecology, I always wondered that, if trees could scream, would we be so blase' about cutting them down? Well, I guess we might be, if they screamed all the time and for no really good reason.

-Old Gargoyle

Vote for the Runt

Ahhh, no more political commericals on t.v. and radio. I was 9 or 10 years old when I began "dabbling" in politics. My mother and some of her brothers were active as "ward captains" in our town and state elections held every two years or so. She would assign me and my brother the tasks of reading and organizing newspaper articles and radio ads on the different candidates; attending some of her "political machine" meetings in our little role as gophers; helping poor or elderly folks reach the polling stations (not only physically but also monetarily with $5 bills passed from her to them through me and my brother, so as not to seem too obvious nor illegal); and keeping mathematical tab on the running poll reports on election night. At that same age, I was a also a delivery boy for the newspaper of which my mother was the town manager. She would send me and my same-age sidekick, Rallen, into the town's saloons to sell the weekly newspaper to the men drinking at the bar but especially to those gambling at tables in the backrooms. Our instruction from her was to keep a sharp eye and ear out for any political talk among those usually-lowlife scoundrels, and report the scuttlebutt back to her. I don't think we had child-labor laws back then.

-Old Gargoyle

Now Showing

I attended the recent late-night sneak preview of Bill Maher's new movie, "Religiosus." Maher hosts the t.v. show, "Real Time with Bill Maher," which specializes in liberal satire of current events. His movie is an over-the-top "documentary" in which a dozen or more religious leaders in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam are interviewed by him. Maher himself was raised Catholic by his Catholic mother and Jewish father, but became an atheist as an adult. So in the movie he delights in asking questions of the religious leaders, which makes them look foolish, stupid, scientifically illogical, or hypocritical. And some of them---e.g., the Hispanic minister who preaches that he's the reincarnation of Jesus Christ---obviously are. However, it's interesting to note that only two of Maher's interviewees come across to the theater audience (most of whom themselves are young-adult agnostics, according to polls taken at film showings) as reasonable or sympathetic, even though these two are professional religionists. And both of these two are Catholics: One is the Jesuit priest who heads the Vatican Observatory, and who makes it clear that Catholic doctrine and the scientific theory of evolution can be compatible; the other is an Englishman priest who works at the Vatican, and who scoffs at the pretentiousness often exhibited by his own Vatican bosses. (The movie doesn't state that the latter priest keeps his job, despite his public criticisms of the Vatican---which are well-known at least among Catholic academics---because he's one of only a handful of remaining experts in the world in the Latin language---i.e., he has true job security.)
At any rate, "Religiosus" has been properly criticized by some film critics, and it remains enjoyable. If it comes to town, try to see it.

-Old Gargoyle

Sorry, Mr. Keys

A certain blond once graced my classroom as a student. "Caitlin," I said to her, "Would you name the national anthem of America? If you need a hint, just ask." "Can you give me the hint?" she replied (they always do). "Well," I said, "The national anthem of Canada is 'O Canada.'" Caitlin ventured, "So the answer is 'O America'?" "Good, good," I remarked, "But what does the 'O' mean? It's not spelled 'O-h' but simply 'O.' "I don't know," she said. "It's simple," I explained, "The 'O' is an old-English corruption of the word 'More.' So the real name of our national anthem is 'More America.' Nice name, isn't it?" "I guess so," she answered. "O dear," I thought to myself. Then I led the class in singing a stumbling rendition of "More America."

-Old Gargoyle

Pump up the Volume

I can't stand the excessively, illegally, and even dangerously loud music played on the car radio by some young-male drivers. Whenever I drive up next to such a car at, e.g., the gas pump, I step out and walk over to the driver, and shout to him, "CAN YOU PLAY THAT LOUDER? THAT'S MY FAVORITE SONG!"

-Old Gargoyle

Audi, Folks

When I was a kid, expensive sportscars in our rural town were a rarity and a treat. Someone had a green Jaguar which I'd see now and then parked downtown; it was one of my two favorites. The other favorite didn't appear in town until one the deejays at our local radio station achieved some minor fame. He set his desk in the large front window of his station, and broadcast a record-breaking eight consecutive days and nights without a bit of sleep. I would pass in front of his window each morning on my newspaper route, and wave to him but without response because of his semi-zombie state after just three or so days on the air. The grateful townsfolk gave him a dazzling, new, white Corvette for his record. And so the Jaguar and the Corvette became my favorites. Lately I've lost interest in the Jag. I now like the Corvette and the sporty Audi. If any of you ex-students out there want to make amends, buy and send me a new or at least fairly new Corvette or Audi. If so, I'll dedicate one of its wheels as a prayer wheel which will spin thousands and thousands of prayers for your salvation as I drive.

-Old Gargoyle

Moose Skinner Blues

Sarah Palin, who lost her election, remains as cute as a button. Some say she'll soon replace Stevens as U.S. Senator from Alaska; others says she'll run for President in four or eight years. I'd like to see a reversal. I want her to finish her term as Governor, then run for Mayor of a small town in Alaska; she would easily win. Then four years later, she should take a parttime job as a sportscaster on a small-town t.v. station in that state. After a couple of years of that, let her buy and run a sporting-goods store in that town. A couple of years later, she would move into a small cabin in the wilderness where she would be for hire as a moose tracker-skinner. She would, of course, still be as cute as a button. That way, when I would finally take my Alaska vacation, I could hire her as my moose tracker, and flirt with her without worrying about being harassed by state troopers or Secret Service agents.

-Old Gargoyle

Stop the Press

Any old-comic books collectors in readerland? Not "old comic books collectors"---you don't have to be my age---but "old-comic books collectors," i.e., collectors of old comic books. If so, do you remember some of my childhood favorites? "Blackhawk" featured a group of six or seven, I think, world-hopping crimefighters, each of whom was a different ethnicity, and each of whom flew his own jet airplane; Blackhawk was the leader. "Little Lulu" was the 10-or-so year-old girl who practiced early feminism in a humorous setting. "Krazy Kat" was some kind of wacky cat, probably mentally insane, who specialized in throwing bricks at other characters. "Green Latern" was a memorable superhero crime fighter. I'd probably commit waterboarding to put my hands on some of these old issues. I never read any comics on gargoyles.

-Old Gargoyle

Sealed and Delivered

I can't get over society's fascination with sharks and with the media's fascination with "shark attacks swimmer" stories. If you don't want to be attacked, just stay away from that shore. But this does make me think. You know, probably the funniest thing for a shark is for it to see a wounded seal trying to swim to shore, because just where does the seal think it's going?

-Old Gargoyle

All Hands on Deck

I'm not ambidextrous. "Ambidextrous" means the ability to do at least some identical things by comfortably using either left or right hand. But I am bidextrous, which is probably less common. "Bidextrous" means doing some things with only the left hand and other things with only the right hand. Thus I eat, box, bat (at baseball), and shoot a rifle lefthandedly, but drink, throw, and shoot a pistol righthandedly. It's confusing. I don't think I would've made a good cop.

-Old Gargoyle

Let Your Little Light Shine

An impending storm cast darkness across the town and over a particular school in which I was teaching. We needed to prepare for extra light, so I decided to light a few candles in the front of the classroom. "Does anyone have a light?" I asked. The blond girl in the very first desk in the first row quickly replied, "Oh, I do," as she reached down for her purse, and removed a cigarette lighter. "Here, use this," she said. I immediately suspended her on the spot from school for possessing tobacco paraphenalia. Lord, I love fooling airhead blonds. I kept her lighter.

-Old Gargoyle

We Ought To Do It

"When are we?" I frequently ask others. "You're asking what time it is?" they usually reply. "No," I say, "When are we? In other words, what's the name of the decade in which we're now living?" "This is 2008, you idiot," they answer. "No," I say again, "What's the name of our DECADE? You say you were born in the eighties or the seventies or the sixties, etc., so in which decade was your child or grandchild, who was born last year, born?" "Well, the teens, I guess," they answer. "No," I say, "We we won't reach the decade called 'teens' until 2010. So what's our current decade?" "Er, I don't know," is their final reply.

That's my point. No one knows, no one speaks about it---because they don't have to. But they (we) will have to once we leave this decade, then start looking back and talking about it. So what to call it? The zeros? Awkward and unprecedented. Thus we have to go back a century to ask what Americans at that time called the first decade of the 20th century. The best I can tell is that those old folks usually called 1900 or 1901 to 1909 or 1910 "the aughts." Yes, "the aughts." "Aught" (sometimes spelled "ought") is the old-fashioned word for "zero" or "nothing." So there you are. Spread the word among your friends---we have only one or two more years before this cultural-linguistic problem kicks in. And to think that we have to rely on oldtimers for the answers. Sometimes it pays to be old.

-Old Gargoyle

Filthy Lucre

The elections finally are finished. In one of my local contests, the two politicians fought over the inclusion or exclusion of "in God we trust" and "under God" in certain legal documents. I did some research. I discovered that in the 200+ years of the United States, we don't have a single factual case nor a single rumored case of any individual or group ever halting their committing of robbery, theft, embezzlement, fraud, etc. because they suddenly realized, "Hey, wait a minute! This money has 'God' on it! We can't continue." Nor do we have any real or rumored case of anyone walking into a dangerous neighborhood, etc. with a money-packed wallet or purse, and feeling invincible against robbers because "God" appeared on their bills. Go figure. And yet several of Jesus' parables in the gospels deal with the handling of money.

-Old Doc

Looks and Talent

After I did my Old Testament reading, I caught some late-night sports channel on t.v. It showed some highlights of the recent summer Olympics. I think women's sandlot volleyball is simply an extension of the Miss Universe pagaent.

-Old Doc

Pass the Bread

I was doing some Old Testament reading. I notice that manna from heaven never occurs anymore. Global warming, I guess, or maybe God IS dead.

-Old Doc

Eight, Nine, Ten

Yes, I do like boxing. The best I can do is give you some advice which has worked for me: If you ever find yourself in a boxing match, try not to let the other guy's gloves touch your lips, because you just don't know where those gloves have been.

-Old Doc

Believe and Be Saved

In my various academic or religious settings, I've met people who mock the beliefs of the people of ancient times. But, you know, we can't mock them personally, to their faces---and that's what annoys me.

-Old Doc

Logan's Heroes

We'll soon have to decide. No, not between McCain or Obama but between a natural or artificial Christmas tree.

I was in seventh grade, and my teacher was Sister Mary Angela of the Holy Water of the Tabernacle or something like that. She was 80 years old when she previously had taught my mother, so you can imagine how old she was as my teacher. Sister Angela would cackle and quiver, and would point and shake her crooked arthritic finger at those of us who would disturb her lessons. The main disturber was Logan. Logan was a skinny little squirt, bright but totally anti-school. At least once a week, Sister would reach her fill with Logan's talking and noises, and would order Lewis and me (the cooperative classroom brain-nerds) to accompany Logan straight to the Principal's office. Off the three of us would go---but only as far as the candy machine down the hall to eat a bar or two, chuckle, then return to the room to tell Sister Angela that the Principal wasn't available. Oddly, Sister would buy that excuse week after week.

It was December, and our classroom needed a Christmas tree. Sister had me, Lewis, and nerd Sharon collect donation money from the classmates in order to purchase a tree. Now it was lunch hour, and it being an open campus in a small town, students could come and go as they pleased. So Sister told us boys to take the money down to the supermarket to buy a tree. When we arrived at the store, Logan's devious mind took over. He simply grabbed a Christmas tree from the store's sidewalk, and dragged it back to the classroom. The money he had us boys secretly split among ourselves. Sister praised our "wise purchase," and even accepted our praise of Logan as the one who "chose" that particular tree. And the girls in the room were lighter in the purse but not the wiser. Twenty years later, we heard that Logan was imprisoned after committing four burglaries in Mississippi. He probably had a nice tree in his cell for Christmas.

-Old Doc

.

When They Came Marching In

All Saints Day is probably best experienced in New Orleans with its historic, beautiful cemeteries, melancholic change of season into autumn, parades, music, and French-Spanish reverence for the dead. The saints seem to hover in the air everywhere there, conjured and praised by the Catholic Church and even by the voodooists. Indeed, when the Saints (the N.F.L. team, that is) were proposed to the city in the '60s, the team owners had the class and respectfulness first to ask the city's then-Archbishop Hannan if the Church would be offended if the team were named "the Saints." The Archbishop gave his blessing but on the condition that no religious symbols would be used; hence the fleur-de-lis and not a halo, cross, angels, etc. for the club. But I guess the heavenly saints never heard of football, as the New Orleans team has won only one or two championships in some forty years.

-Old Doc

Push 'Em Back, Way Back

Well, we're in late football season; basketball season must be around the corner. All "seasonal" sports are year-round now, of course.

"America" is the weekly newsmagazine published by the American Jesuit priests. Its October 20, 2008 issue contains a couple of the best thought-provoking short articles on sports which I've read in a while: "The Games of Tomorrow," a description of the negative influence of money, drugs, and arrogance on sports, by Dave Anderson, a Pulitzer Prize-winning sports columnist; and "Experiencing Life's Flow," a reflection on psychological wholesomeness and distortion in sports actions, by Patrick Kelly, S.J. of the Center for the Study of Sport and Exercise at Seattle University. (By the way, did you know that the Vatican has an Office for the Church and Sports in its Council [Department] on Culture?) But the most intellectually engaging analysis of the spiritual-moral-psychological corruption of sports in the United States remains, for me, the one chapter on this topic in Christopher Lasch's bestseller book of about fifteen years ago, "The Cult of Narcissism."

-Old Doc

Choke on Candy

The little woman forgot to collect our mail on her way home today (I think she does that to irk me). So I had to walk around the corner to our neighborhood mailboxes. It was dusk, and I was wearing my walking shorts, sneakers with high-top white socks, and my light-blue University of Vienna t-shirt. I passed two separate groups of kids who were beginning their trick-or-treat rounds. "Look, Mommy," they cried with apprehensive voices, "It's a Halloween monster!" Gimme a break, rugrats.

-Old Doc

Chance of a Lifetime

Look, it's too much for me alone to handle; I need help. Let's go ahead and create an Old Gargoyle Society or Fan Club. Become a Gargy. We can't, though, allow just anyone to be a member. So do this: Make sure the secret grip and password are followed to the "t". Extend your left hand, not the right, to the other person. Upon gripping, pump his or her hand up and down twice while saying with a mild degree of force, "Student!" He or she immediately must reply with "Remove that foreign object from your oral cavity." If he doesn't know the grip or password, quickly walk away---unless he wants to pay dues---in which case, send me 40 percent.

-Old Doc

Scarecrow in the Cemetery

Ah, All Saints Day! If I had to choose only five or six days of the year (what a pleasant thought) on which I could attend church, I would include All Saints Day. (Another day would be Saint Gemma Day. "Saint who?" you ask? Google her website. What a looker! I think I have an embarrassing crush on a dead saint.) What a day of cosmological and eschatological import! A day to remember the metaphysical communion of all the living and the dead. It's a day to be spent outside watching the clouds and visiting cemeteries.

And so when I worked for a church in Ohio, every year on November 1st I would walk to the cemetery behind the church. The graveyard was small and old, and it was adjacent to the street across from which was a shopping center. I would sit against the giant tree next to graves, sinking a foot into the pile of fallen autumn leaves, watching the moving clouds, thinking, praying. And then it would happen---every year the same thing. A police car would stop on the street sidewalk bordering the cemetery. Onto my wrists would the cop's handcuffs go---me, a bum dangerous looking and loitering on private property, at least according to any one of the store clerks across the street who would call the police upon spotting me squatted in the leaves. Following this would be my usual protest and the usual walk over to the church rectory where my pastor would vouch for my release. I wonder if that treatment by clerks and police qualify as a kind of martyrdom for my eventual canonization? "Saint Old Doc, patron of cemetery loiterers"---has a nice ring to it.

-Old Doc

Apology

I, who seldom apologize or say thank you, extend this apology to the two children who did the early round of Halloween trick-or-treating at my house and, of course, to their parents. The children apparently were brother and sister around ages 8 and 10; I think you know who you are. I apologize for throwing my buckets of candy at the kids' heads. I apologize for causing them to stumble and fall down my porch steps. I do apologize for screaming at them as they ran away. They were dressed as Wall Street executives. I'm keeping their golden parachutes.

-Old Doc

Notice

If you need to talk to me tonight, I'll be home watching "30 Rock" on t.v. On the way home this afternoon, I bought eight bags of Halloween candy and four bags of popcorn. So catch me before I eat and drink myself into a coma.

-Old Doc

Four Basic Food Groups

In response to reader Scorpio who wants me to give my favorite celebrity examples of the four hair colors of women, I submit: Denise, Frances, Sue, and Jennifer.

-Old Doc

Drawing outside the Box

In response to a religious poster-art contest I once ordered for my students, a particular student, Danny, submitted an all-white, completely blank poster. "What the heck is this?" I asked Danny. He explained, "It's the elderly Pope John Paul II wearing his white papal robe and caught in a snow storm while vacationing atop an Alpine mountain." F for visual attractiveness, C for realism/accuracy, A for imagination.

Another student, Frances, displayed her drawing of a passenger airplane. Visible through the side windows were a bearded man and a woman holding a baby; visible through the front window was a clean-shaven man in the cockpit. "And what the heck is this?" I asked Frances. She said, "This is the famous Flight into Egypt mentioned in the gospel. The man and woman and baby here are Joseph, Mary, and the baby Jesus." "Oh?" I reacted, "and who is this guy in the cockpit?" "That's Pontius the pilot," Frances said. C for visual attractiveness, F for realism/accuracy, A for imagination.

-Old Doc

Spoil the Child

I was whittling a tree branch on my back porch. "What are you cutting?" asked my granddaughter Rebecca. "A stick," I replied. "What will it be when you're finished?" she asked. "A smaller stick," I answered.

-Old Doc

Elementary, My Dear Memory

Since childhood I've been a fan of Sherlock Holmes. For me, the actor in the definitive role of Holmes is the late Basil Rathbone. I was delighted to see Sherlock reemerge explicitly and implicitly in a couple of excellent movies in the past few years. Try to rent these two: First, in "They Might Be Giants" (1980s), set in London in the 1950s, George C. Scott plays a retired, legally insane, but harmless judge who thinks he's Sherlock Holmes. When his daughter and son-in-law bring a psychiatrist to Scott's house to treat him, the psychiatrist (played by Joann Woodward) has the name of Doctor Watson. That's all it takes to trigger Scott. Even though Doctor Watson is a woman, Scott (Holmes) treats her as his long-lost male sidekick. And off they go into the streets of London to track down Holmes' dreaded archenemy, Doctor Moriarty. Watch for the particular scene in which Scott and Woodward enter a psychiatric hospital during their pursuit of Moriarity. Note the Holmes-like manner in which Scott quickly analyzes one of the patients who is cowering on the floor in the hall.

The other movie is "The Name of the Rose" ('80s), based on Umberto Eco's famous book of the same name. It's set in a 12th-century Italian monastery. Sean Connery plays a scientifically oriented monk, Brother William of Baskerville, who is assisted by a younger monk. Functioning like Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, Connery and helper use reason and logic in investigating several murders in the monastery, resulting in a delightfully surpriseful ending.

Late at night when I can't sleep (and that's every blasted night when the morphine diminishes), I put on my hound-hunter cap, light my Cavendish pipe, walk with my cane to the kitchen table, and begin reading and taking notes on the all the crime reports in the newspaper. I'm not so convinced that Doctor Moriarty is fictional. In the morning, Jonka finds me sprawled on the floor and entangled in my London cape.

-Old Doc

Someone Call for an Exorcist?

Very few people can remember childhood scenes from when they were age 2 or even 3. I can. I remember my older brother Mike and I playing in our front yard under the big tree and on the small swing set. Arthur was an older neighborhood kid, about 10, who would come into our yard and briefly taunt us before running away. One day, I had enough of Arthur. I lifted a hammer which our father had left near the swing, and with one quick swoop toward Arthur, who was kneeling in the dirt, cracked his temple. I don't remember what happened right after that, but I do know that Arthur never again entered our yard. And I know that a few years later, when Mike and I would walk the streets to the movie theater or to church, we occasionally would walk past Arthur. He wouldn't recognize us, but we would recognize him by his reddish hair and by his crossed eyes which, I'm told, resulted from my hammer.

Also, when I was 2 or 3, only my mother and I were home a particular day. She needed to borrow a food item or something from Miss Melie, our neighbor, so she made the decision that I could be left by myself in our house for a few minutes, and off she went. It was a winter day, so a small, floor-mounted, gas-burning, open-flame heater was in our living room. Several feet away from it was a old, small chair. I became curious: would the chair burn if placed into the gas heater? I managed to drag the chair, then tilt it back into the fire. Yes, it did burn---so much so that the leaping flame and the stinking smoke sent me crying into the yard, just in time, thank goodness, to catch the attention of Mom and Miss Melie who then drenched the chair with a bucket of water. That's the last time my mother left me unattended.

You young mothers out there, listen to me! Do not---DO NOT---ever give your young children a hammer or a gas heater to play with. A swing or a small chair is okay.

-Old Doc

The Hand Knows

It's almost Halloween. I think I'll do again what I've done for many Halloween nights. I sit in a simple chair in my lighted driveway wearing just jeans, t-shirt, and flops---nothing scary. On my left hand is a simple white sock. Older kids and teenagers don't approach me because they think I'm goofy or boring, but small kids do approach (with, of course, their parents lingering in the background). As the small ones draw near, I make my sock hand start growling and talking spooky talk. Keep in mind that my lips are fullly moving, as I don't pretend to be a ventriloquist. But instead of watching my non-scary mouth, the kids' eyes focus on the utterly plain "talking" sock. It scares the hell out of them, and they turn and run away screaming. Lord, I love to frighten kids---and airhead blonds.

-Old Doc

The Proof Is in the Pudding

You say you regularly read my blog? Prove it. Send me money.

-Old Doc

Go Ahead and Raz Me

Times have changed. Ask kids today who are their heroes, and they'll name athletes, singers, or actors. One of my heroes is Rasputin. Don't know who Rasputin was? Research him. You don't even have to consult a book---just use this new-fangled, electronic machine-contraption called the computer. I admire Rasputin because he enjoyed the best of both worlds, the spiritual and the material.

-Old Doc

What's in a Name?

The little woman and I proud to be the grandparents of two new grandchildren, a boy and a girl. They join our older grandchildren, also a boy and a girl, for a total of four.

I couldn't persuade my own children nor their spouses to do something which Christians used to do, namely, name your child according to the name of the saint of birth day and the name of the saint of baptism day. My parents almost did so with me; if they would have, I would've been called Gregory (day of birth, St. Gregory the Great) Patrick (day of baptism, St. Patrick). Nonetheless, Jonka and I followed this practice for our own kids. That's why, e.g., our first boy is named Helen Margaret.

-Old Doc

Pass the Popcorn

"Which have been your favorite movies?" I'm often asked. Well, I've enjoyed the usual famous movies, especially those with critical acclaim. My favorites have been those which have most strongly moved me intellectually or emotionally, which I would see more than twice, and sometimes which were not objectively great or well known. Some which come to mind are "Dr. Strangelove" (1960s), "2001: A Space Odyssey" ('60s), "The Graduate" ('60s), "Looking for Mr. Goodbar" ('70s), "Oh, God" ('70s), "Catholics" (t.v. movie, '70s), "The Exorcist" ('70s), "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" ('80s), "Mass Appeal" ('80s), "Electric Dreams" ('80s), "The Apostle" ('80s), "Peggy Sue Got Married" ('80s), "The Professional" ('90s), "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" ('00s), "Prairie Home Companion" ('00s). One of the most unusual movies I've encountered is "Russian Ark" ('90s). This one, set in the late 1800s in St. Petersburg, Russia, is a semi-documentary of the city's famous Hermitage Art Museum. What makes it striking is the fact that its entire 90 minutes were filmed with the same, ONE camera shot, i.e., no breaks in the camera's recording, no editing, no goofs---an hour and a half of one constant shot moving in and out of different rooms in the Hermitage, capturing different people in dialog and coming and going, etc.

About ten years ago, the Vatican surprised the world by out of the blue announcing its list of the best 100 movies (or was it 40, the Biblical number?---I forget) ever made in its opinion. The list was full not of such religious films as "The Ten Commandments," "Ben Hur, "Jesus of Nazareth," but of most of the famous, critically acclaimed secular movies which you and I have seen over the years. Maybe B-16 (Pope Benedict XVI) in the evening enjoys watching "Das Boot."

-Old Doc

Scrambled or Fried?

Back to Marilyn Mach Vos Savant. She undertakes what is considered to be the unanswerable question, "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?" Look, she says, everyone agrees, at least to some extent, with the scientific explanation of evolution of everything. So back in time, the animal which we now categorize as a chicken wasn't yet a chicken; it was, say, a blugup, which looked roughly like a chicken. Then at one point in time, one or more particular blugups underwent genetic changes which encoded in their d.n.a. what we would call "chicken genes." Then when this blugup laid her next egg, the baby which emerged from the egg was technically the first chicken. This first male or female chicken passed on its chicken d.n.a. to subsequent chickens. From this explanation, the answer is "The chicken came first." But if one says that this original change of d.n.a. could have happened first in the egg instead of in the chicken, then we could argue that this change in the egg---though substantially changing the unhatched blugup into an unhatched chicken---was still due to the egg having received just enough genetic-code change from its parent blugup which at that point had already become a quasi-chicken. The answer would remain, "The chicken came first." I don't well understand all this scientific stuff, but if my girlfriend Marilyn said it, I believe it.

-Old Doc

Skin Deep

A few years ago, every other woman was changing her hair color to what she thought was red, but which was a ghastly orange. Lately the trend is blond, nothing but blond. And so I watch all these women news commentators on t.v., and they're all bleached blonds and all with the same hair style. I can't tell one commentator from another. Most store clerks, secretaries, movie stars, and singers are now bleached blonds. For heaven's sake, God gave women a nice variety of four hair colors: blond, brown, black, and red. They look so much better wearing their natural color. At least I can tell which one is Sarah and which one is Mrs. McCain when they stand together on stage. But I'm awaiting the next trend of blue or purple or green. That would be much worse than only blond, so when it happens, I'll have tattoos of Dagwood's wife burned into my forehead and arms in a feeble attempt to call women back to some degree of sanity.

-Old Doc

Superman Would Agree

The little woman and I were at a party the other night (a party with HER friends, not mine---I don't have any). The small group with whom we were standing began discussing local construction, new buildings and condos, etc. It prompted me to ask the group, "What's the strongest thing in the world?" "Steel," some said, "Diamonds," others replied. "No," I clarified, "it's the brassiere. It can hold up two milk factories and a playground for boys." Boy, when I said that, the men and women in the group were taken aback. No one spoke, a couple cleared their throat, and Jonka gave me the meanest silent gaze. Then she took me aside into the adjoining room. "You embarrassed the hell out of us," she said. "How could you say such a thing in front of mixed company?" she continued, explaining "The word is 'bra,' not 'brassiere'---no one's said 'brassiere' in decades!"

-Old Doc

Rice and Gravy

I see that Anne Rice, author of "Interview with the Vampire" and similar vampire books, who was raised Catholic but then became an atheist for decades, returned to her religious faith about three years ago. She since has authored two semi-historical books on the early life of Jesus. Maybe the blood became drained from the life of her vampire books, which in turn gave her the cross of embarrassment to carry, which in turn resurrected her inspiration to write, causing an ascension in her new sales.

-Old Doc

Munich Blues

Jonka and I drove yesterday to a rural town which was advertising its first Oktoberfest. We weren't expecting it to be on a giant scale, but we surely were expecting it to have a German flavor. Nope, not a bit of Germanica, no polka bands (only ear-splitting hard-rock ones), no Bavarian costumes, no cardboard Alpine mountains, no beer mugs, no beer itself, no sausage with sauerkraut. Unbelievable. We stayed only a half-hour, then returned home. On the way, I bought two six-packs of European beer, and at home I drank myself into a stupor. I awoke three hours later wearing nothing but lederhosen.

-Old Doc

Twilight Zone

Last week the little woman and I drove into the flatland countryside to see some small rural towns we had never seen before; we didn't use our map. On the outskirts of one was a giant water tower. The top line in large letters on the tower read CAPA; under that in the second line in large letters was CITY; and the third line read 200,000. I screeched our car to a halt. "What" I said to Joan, "200,000? How can that be? Nothing but a small, dirty general store, a broken-down old gas station, and a dozen little houses in this village called Capa City. And the closest towns must be thirty miles away, and are just as tiny." She laughed AT me all the way home.

-Old Doc

Living in La La Land

I'm planning ahead, and I can't decide. Do I apply for "Big Brother," "Dancing with the Stars," or "Amazing Race"? Readers, you decide. Send me your choice.

-Old Doc

Abandon 'Ship

We seldom say "limosine," we say "limo." We seldom say "automobile" but "car" (which is not short for "automobile," of course, but short for "carriage." "Telephone" is almost a lost word---it's simply "phone." We Americans are addicted to diminuitives. We can't even say "Astros" as in "Houston Astros"---even that is chopped to "Stros." And so it goes with so many words. We've become monosyllabic. Our sentences, as in this blog, are short and choppy. Most Americans cannot grasp American and British writings of the early 20th century because such writings contain so many complex sentences and properly spelled words. So why oh why in the world don't we follow the same need or practice for one of the most overly used words in contemporary culture: "relationship"? In entertainment or educational reports, it's "relationship this" and "relationship that." I'm awaiting the day when someone---e.g., Oprah---will reduce the word to one syllable. "Today's topic is 'ships." Or "Today we'll talk about your tion ['shun']." Or "Today let's discuss re." Why not? Let's be consistent. That will be the day I watch the entire Oprah program.

-Old Doc

Can't See (or Hear) the Forest for the Trees

"If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around to hear it, does the tree make a sound?" This is a popular "problem," and the common answer is "Obviously no, because for sound to be sound, it must be heard, and no one is around to hear this tree." Not so fast, says Marilyn Mach Vos Savant, the famous magazine-article writer who has been recorded as having the highest i.q. of anyone in the world. She points out that animals and birds are probably near the tree, and as soon as one of them hears it falling, the tree has made a sound. Way to go, Marilyn. I have a crush on Marilyn---she's both superintelligent and easy on the eyes. Moreover, I enjoy the irony in her name. "Savant" is French for "wise" or "smart," and "Mach" is German for "strong" or "very." There you go: "Marilyn Very Smart." Now I wonder if she knows the answer to "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?" (Actually, she does, but that's a later blog.)

-Old Doc

Sell Phones

I guess it's just another sign that I'm an old toad: cell phones irk me. Okay, okay, they're invaluable for purposes of safety for those traveling and for contact with children, etc. But jeez, everytime I'm in stationary traffic while driving, every third or fourth driver I see near me or even turning the intersection corner at my red light is a driver who's talking on the damn cell phone! And---dare I say it---almost every one of those talkers is a woman. I know women love to talk with family and friends---it's in their d.n.a.---much more than men do. But for heaven's sake, while driving? A recent national study showed that those who cell-phone talk while driving lose more travel time than non-talkers. I've already non-scientifically validated that by recently counting at least two-dozen driver-talkers (all women, I must say again) who were behind me at a red light---and when the light turned green, I drove an entire block before each one behind me even accelerated her car. This is not good. This must stop. Let's make cell phones which are sensitive to the female voice and to car noise, such that the phones would emit a loud screeching noise when used inside the car. Or would the woman driver's screeching voice simply override and drown out the phone's? I can't win.

-Old Doc

Talking Heads

I've never been a strongly political conservative, but I've always admired the thoughtful political commentaries of George Will, Newt Gingrich, and the late William Buckley and the forceful commentaries of Pat Buchanan, Bill O'Riley, and, I guess I must add, my friend Warren.

-Old Doc

Quack, Quack, Quack

Say, whatever happened to Donald Duck's famous three nephews? Did Huey, Duey, and Louie ever go to college? Is any of them now an M.B.A. for their Greatuncle Scrooge? Did they marry, and have their own little ducks? Did the nephews hit skit row? Arrested for drugs? Did they rob banks as adults? If so, individually or as a group? Are they concerned with global warming and the environment? Why don't we hear about the three today? Is a coverup involved here? One can wonder.

-Old Doc

Hymns and Hers

I'm finally going to church this Sunday. Why "finally"? Because someone gave me extra tickets. "Tickets" to go to church? Yes. Actually, I'll be going to the cathedral downtown---the contemporary one in American society. Even though it's the cathedral, it's not old---indeed, it's only twenty years old, and is rebuilt and replaced by a new one every twenty or so, it seems. It's the same situation in every major city. The cathedral has a movable dome, and it seats 80,000. The priests appear on the sanctuary, called the field, dressed in their special vestments of bright colors. These priests are divided into two opposing groups, one local and one visiting, and named after gods called fierce animals or frightful humans. They begin their sacrificial ritual of running, hitting, tackling each other with a great spirit of competition and verocity. Each group tries to demonstrate that the gods of its own city are superior to the gods of the city of the opposing group. The faithful of the congregation, seated in the raised pews, yell and cheer their own city's gods and its priests, and condemn the other gods as idolatrous. Scantily clad acolyte virgins called cheerleaders, meanwhile, boost in whatever way they can the spirit of their own team of priests. Basically, it's a liturgy which celebrates what America worships: sex and violence.

-Old Doc

Body and Soul

I don't think that in all my life I've said "God bless you" to someone who sneezed. It seems to me to be theological overkill to call upon the Lord God Ruler of the universe, who is so busy up there supervising the great computers which run the universe, to take time to send a special blessing upon a human who has just sneezed. It's just a sneeze, for heaven's sake (whoops, not literally). It's a minor, spontaneous, natural bodily function. This person won't need to be taken to the hospital emergency room, nor will his soul suddenly leave his body, nor is he evil, if he's not blessed by God at this moment. And why do we call upon the deity for only the sneeze? I think the next time I'm in public, I'll announce "God bless you" to all persons near me who not only sneeze, but who also experience other spontaneous functions, namely, coughs, belches, and farts.

-Old Doc

All Roads Lead to Rome

When I was a boy, I loved maps. I wanted to become a geographer or a cartologist. During stay-inside rainy-day recess in the third grade, my friend Freddie and I would assemble the 48-piece United States puzzle much faster than any of our classmates. I found, however, that as soon as a map of the world or a continent were turned upside down, I became physically disoriented, even falling onto the floor clinging onto the map for dear life. So much for future work in geography. And I refuse ever to fly to Australia.

-Old Doc

As the Spirit Moves You

I read that Sarah Palin was baptized as an infant as Catholic, then raised in the Assembly of God Church. I'm reminded of my mother and her lovable but wacky sister, Aunt Zora, who were raised as staunch Catholics:

In the old days in our rural area, "tent revivals" were common. These were large tents pitched on the outskirt of town by traveling evangelical-Protestant ministers for the purpose of conducting a few nights of spiritual-revival preaching for the locals. One night, my future mother, then a teenager, and her boyfriend wandered with curiosity into the back of such a tent during the preaching. The service was of the "holy roller" type with the preacher shouting, and the congregation shouting with upraised hands, and some members literally rolling in the aisle. "You have to catch the Holy Ghost! You have to catch the Holy Ghost!" the preacher kept screaming. My mother had a brown paper bag with her empty from the cookies they had eaten. She filled the bag with her breath, then began waving the bag in the air while shouting, "I've caught Him! I've caught Him! Look, I've caught the Holy Ghost!" The boy and my mother were, of course, promptly and angrily expelled from the tent and the grounds.

Years later, my mother was ill one Sunday, so she asked Aunt Zora to take me and my brother, who were young boys at the time, to church. Aunt Zora didn't have her car, so she called a taxi for us. When we entered the cab, she told the driver, "Take us to church, please." "The Catholic church?" the driver asked. "Is there any other?" Aunt Zora retorted.

If my mother and Aunt Zora would've even heard of the word "ecumenism," they probably would've thought it was a strange disease or the name of a new planet.

-Old Doc

Fumble

Yes, we're in the middle of football season. I wonder how God ponders all the simultaneous prayer requests for victory He receives from high-school, college, and even pro football players. Maybe God plays virtual football.

-Old Doc

Asoy There, Mate

Have you tried that new thing on the market called soy milk? Like it? I can't stand the crap. Soy doesn't produce milk. The whole thing is an embarrassment to cows everywhere. Stay away from it.

-Old Doc

Rule, Britneyannica

A ninety-minute t.v. special on Britney Spears is scheduled? Give me a break. Ninety minutes of description in prime time are to be given to a pop singer who whines forgettable, electronically-distorted tunes backed by tinny, banging drums, while she prances in her spangled shorts and bleached-blond hair? Ninety minutes for this erratic, drunk-driving "celebrity" from the piney woods of Louisiana? You think I'm going to watch such nonsense? You betcha I will. Then I plan to dress up my parakeet as Britney for Halloween---little spangled shorts and bleached-blond feathers.

-Old Doc

Rocky Salvador

Any boxing fans out there? Not many. Whenever I'm asked to name whom I think were the greatest boxers in my lifetime, the questioner is surprised that I don't agree with his offering of Mohammed Ali and Sugar Ray Leonard. Those two were great, but my favorites are Rocky Marciano and Salvador Sanchez.

Marciano was, of course, the world heavyweight champion in the '50s and early '60s. In a time when heavyweights seldom exceeded 200 pounds by much, he still was a small one at only 182. Despite his shortness and lightness, he plowed into heavier men round after round, suffered knockdowns, then k.o'ed them at the end. Unbelievable determination and drive as a slugger---the inspiration for Stallone's later "Rocky" movies. He has been the only heavyweight champ to have retired undefeated, with a whopping 43 k.o.'s in 49 wins with six defenses. A few years after retirement, he encountered premature death in an airplane crash in Iowa.

Sanchez was a Mexican who was world featherweight champ in the '70s. I've never seen such a master boxer with knockout power---like a snake in and out of the opponent's defense, neutralizing the offense until victory was achieved---and without ever seeming to break a sweat nor breathing hard. He had 40+ wins with 30+ k.o.'s, one loss, and seven defenses. Like Marciano he met untimely death, but unlike Rocky it was while he was still in his 20's as still as champion, when he accidentally crashed his sportscar.

Maybe I'm lucky I never became a world champion.

-Old Doc

Don't Cross Me

I caught some of that new program, "True Blood," on t.v., about vampires and "normal" Southerners set in Louisiana swampland. Which vampire is dangerous, which one is the strongest? blah blah. Anyway, it made me think: I wish I had a crucifix made of kryptonite. That way, I could keep both Dracula and Superman away.

-Old Doc

Enough Is Enough

I swear, when the next person asks me directly, or asks indirectly in my presence, "I wonder what life is all about?" or "Does love really conquer all?", I'm gonna spin him around, tie his arm behind his back, and say, "NOW who's asking the questions, pod'nuh?"

-Old Doc

Comment Ca Va?

"We'll always have Paris," I tell the little woman. "Yeah, but it ain't no Cleveland," she retorts. Well, no---Paris has no bowling alleys, and the men there don't wear white belts with white shoes. Paris is a beautiful and interesting city; Parisians themselves are something else. I discovered a delightful blog in which American visitors to or expatriots in Paris analyze the cultural habits of Parisians: www.o-chateau.com/blog.

-Old Doc

Sweet and Low

May the Lord God damn the xylophone! Seriously, which demon invented that obnoxious instrument? Purgatory for me would be a near-eternity of exposure to relentless xylophone music perhaps accompanied by constant background lyrics by the Carpenters. Anyway, I've always wished I could play a musical instrument. Now that I've had a little more time, I finally acted. I bought and practiced on my favorite three: the piano, clarinet, and blues harmonica. Try to catch me for my debut (and one-and-only show, at least so far) on Tuesday, November 18 at 2:30 a.m. (the final show of the night---not the best date and time, I realize) at the Broken Bones Cafe' downtown; they're billing me as Doctor Trinity. Afterward, vote for your favorite instrument which I played.

-Old Doc

Serious Patriotism

It set me back a few bucks, but I bought it. After watching Sarah Palin on t.v. shooting that machine gun, I said to the little woman, "Little woman, Governor Palin---whom I still think is cute as a button---is setting the example for all American women to defend their homes and our homeland. Remember what President Bush said, 'If we don't defeat the terrorists in Iraq, we'll have to fight 'em at home in our streets,'? Well, here's our chance to help frighten the enemy." To my surprise, it wasn't difficult to find and buy a high-powered, chest- and skull-splattering, shell-spraying machine gun---simply bought one at the gun show downtown, no questions asked, no forms filled out. I let Joanie pay for the bullets.

-Old Doc

On the Seventh Day We Rested

When I was a teenager, my older brother Mike and I would attend church almost every Sunday. Or would we? We'd arrive at the door of the church, and he would have me---because I was younger and more innocent looking---enter, swipe a bulletin, look at who was conducting the liturgy, and then swiftly exit. Then it was a short walk downtown to the only pool hall open on Sundays. There he would shoot a few games with older dudes while I watched. After an hour came the walk home with proof for our parents---the bulletin and the liturgist's name---that we had attended church. No wonder I grew up so ignorant of religion.

-Old Doc

Hope for a Reader

I see that, among my hundreds, perhaps even dozens, of reader-fans, the favorite movie of one of them is "The Hudsucker Proxy." "The Hudsucker Proxy"?! Who in the world remembers that movie, let alone lists it as his favorite? Who in the world even understood "Hudsucker"? Understanding "Hudsucker" is like understanding the dense, contorted "Dune" of years ago. Not even Roger Ebert understood "Dune." What kind of person would even admit to understanding or liking "Dune" and "Hudsucker Proxy"? I don't know---maybe, maybe someone into . . . into . . . neuroscience or quantum physics? We can only hope.

-Old Doc

Adventures of Donald and Buck

It's so blasted frustrating! On weekends, my news programs and cultural programs on television are delayed or cancelled. Why? Because we're in the football season.

At a high school in Ohio, a certain two of my students, Donald and Buck, were on the football team. Donald would sleep every day in my class. One day, I held a skit with a few students in front of the class. I awoke Donald to tell him that it was his role to walk from his desk some fifteen feet, and pretend he was roughing up Toby. To everyone's utter surprise, Donald sprang like a tiger from his desk, flew across the room in a football crouch, slammed his elbows and body up and against Toby chin, lifting Toby two feet into the air, and collapsing the helpless boy like pile of laundry onto the floor. "My God," I thought to myself in horror, "a hospital emergency and a lawsuit!" But Toby rose, recovered, and managed a crooked smile before returning to his own desk.

When I asked Donald how he could change like lightning from sleep to superman, he replied that his moments of his narcolepsy had ended just before I instructed him on his skit role. Narcolepsy! How in the world does someone with narcolepsy play football? When I asked that of his coaches, they replied, "Well, Donald's a lineman; yes, he often falls asleep in the game, but his teammates quickly wake him in time for each play." Incredible. When I later met with Donald's parents, and asked them about the physical danger of an unpredictable narcoleptic playing football, they agreed but shrugged saying, "But what can we do? Football is Donald's whole life. He couldn't live without it." What do you say to that?

Buck's name seemed suspicious to me. What boy has "Buck" as a legal name? When I kept asking him for his legal name for the sake of the school records I had to prepare on him, he kept saying "Buck" was it. I insisted it was his nickname. Had he never seen his birth certificate? No, he said. So I called his mother. She too insisted Buck was his legal first name. Because this was Ohio, the land of the Buckeyes, and because this family was football people, I just knew "Buck" was short for "our little Buckeye." It took me fifteen grueling minutes on the phone before I led the mother to admit, with maximum reluctance and even disappointment in her voice, that, yes, "Buck" was given to her boy at a young age---but at such a young age, she added, "it might as well have been his legal name." There's more: even though she acknowledged that "Buck" was not the real name, the woman could NOT remember her son's legal name, saying that she would have to consult the birth certificate!

Donald and Buck both won football scholarships to college. They lasted only one or two semesters. Donald and Buck were functionally illiterate. My news and cultural t.v. programs are again overrun by football games. Well, at least Donald and Buck aren't among the players I can blame for this. May the Lord continue to bless and protect all our football players and their parents.

-Old Doc

I'll Count That Bridge When I Come to It

I hate math. I like science, but I hate math---never understood the weird stuff. Consider 0 x 2; the answer is 0, right? Now consider 2 x 0; the answer is still 0, right? At least that's what they tell me. But where's the logic in that? I can understand the former: if I have 0, and I multiply it by 2 or any other number, I'm still left with the original 0, because nothing is nothing. But the latter: if I have 2, and I don't multiply it, i.e., I "multiply" it by 0, it seems to me I'm left with the original 2 with which I started, not 0. I think it's the illogic, the errors such as this, made by so-called mathematicians and their engineers, which have led to the collapse of the Minneapolis bridge last year and other disasters. I drive way around, not over, bridges.

-Old Doc

Cue the Violins

Oh, baloney on John McCain and Barack Obama saying how rough they had it as kids. Hell, when I was in high school, after my after-school sports practice, I would go to work until midnight or 1:00 a.m. at the Frostop Drive-Inn. Not many Frostops around anymore. I was the grill cook. Now this is another recurring nightmare, as I dream I'm back at that joint, my hot, greasy, steaming grill overloaded with hundreds of burning hamburger patties, and the orders just keep a-comin'. Well, that's pretty much how it was in reality. In my dreams, I do what I did in reality, namely, scoop up from the filthy floor many a patty which I accidentally knocked off the grill. No earphoned McDonald's-type manager in those days to look over my shoulder. A little taste of floor germs never hurt anybody---probably built up my customers' immune system.

And picking cotton. I betcha (whoops, there I go again, unconsciously speaking Palinism) neither McCain nor Obama ever picked cotton in the hot, humid summer sun. Talk about backbreaking work---I did it for two summers with my brother.

In the last, oh, I'd say 50 years, when I order a hamburger at a McDonald's or Burger King, I always make sure it's without ketchup (can't stand the stuff) and without meat---and I've worn no other clothes but polyester. Kids and politicians these days are nambie-pambies.

-Old Doc

And Check the Tires

I remember President John Kennedy saying, "Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country." I think that with the price of gasoline these days, we would say, "Ask not what your county can do for you. Ask what you can do for your county."

-Old Doc

Shadows of Pink Floyd

Last week I was in New York City for a conference. That's when the financial stuff hit the fan! Boy, I took a bath on Wall Street. No, literally---in protest of what happened, and wanting somewhat to copy the angry Old Testament prophet Jeremiah, I stripped and bathed at a fire hydrant on Wall Street while shouting. If you have to reach me, my new address is c/o N.Y.P.D., Financial District Station, 420 Wall St., New York 20019.

-Old Doc

Just Surviving

Today I had to renew my subscription to "Time," pay my rent, and update my dues for my membership in the Rosicrucian Society. I can understand the reason for the first two, but I sure can't the hell remember why for the third.

-Old Doc

Time for My Pill and Hot Cocoa

It's a frequent nightmare with me. No, I don't mean dreaming that Sarah Palin has succeeded to the Presidency. I mean the ghoulish, repeated dream that I'm walking the halls of a school, and its students are taunting me, making me untie and retie my shoelaces over and over, making me remove my belt so that my pants keep falling, making me overload my arms and neck with bracelets and necklaces so that they can barely move, making me stuff my mouth with dozens of sticks of gum while mushly repeating the word "Student!," making me run to one classroom door after another while a horn-bell keeps blasting in my ears. Dear God, I can't take anymore! Justice, o justice, where art thou? Am I to be haunted until death with the faces and names I see in these dreams: Jeremy, Tom, Josh, Caitlin, Sandra, Nick, Bobby, Allison, Mark, Chris, Margaret, Eric, John, Michael, Victor, Susan, Allison, Paul, Maurice, Kristin, etc.?

-Old Doc

My Life with Orenthal

I just heard that O. J. Simpson has been found guilty of armed robbery and kidnapping at his trial in Las Vegas. You know what I've been doing every weekend and vacation for the past ten years? Helping O. J. You see, when he was declared innocent of murdering his wife and her friend in Los Angeles, he announced that he would spend the rest of his life in constant search for the real killer, that he would and could not rest until he found the murderer. I volunteered to assist O. J., and he accepted. So for the past decade, the Juice and I have been crisscrossing the country and its many golf courses, sleeping in seedy hotel rooms (to save money for the long haul), consulting with police authorities, tracking down leads, staking out suspects, etc. It wasn't easy, it wasn't pretty, it wasn't cheap. The only thing which kept me going was O. J.'s commitment to his original promise to keep searching. But yesterday he was blocked by that blasted legal entanglement in Vegas. Ah, but the bright side: now O.J. and I can finally get some rest---something like being called into the Big Timeout.

-Old Doc

May You Liver a Long Life

My liver's shot, says my doctor. Too much hard drinking, too many lectures delivered half-drunk, too many student reports graded while I was sopped with liquor and could hardly see. My Uncle Gustav also had liver trouble. He took what is known as the brand name Carter's Little Liver Pills all his life. Good, strong stuff, but I don't think it's available anymore in stores. Anyway, when Uncle Gustav died, they had to beat his liver to death.

-Old Doc

Free the Slavs

"I married a Slav," I tell friends. "Hey, don't call your wife a slob," they reply. "No, not slob---Slav," I clarify, "she's Austro-Slovenian." She's been a masterful teacher, cook (sausage, sauerkraut, potatoes---yum), gardener, florist, singer, and seamstress, and, of course, wife and mother. I'm sending her for yodeling lessons.

-Old Doc

Cold Cuts

It's October now. I like October. I just wish the new year would begin with early spring instead of mid-winter. What was wrong with the calendar people when they decided to start each year in mid-winter? Maybe they made their calendar decisions IN mid-winter when their brains were dimmed from the cold and lack of oxygen. Maybe the calendar people lived in Cleveland.

-Old Doc

Plato, Jr.

The little woman dragged me to Loew's today, then to Home Depot, then to Ace Hardware, then back to Loew's, back to Home Depot. One damn store is the same as another. I hate bolts and screws and brackets and paint cans and electrical outlets and light fixtures and towel racks and drills, etc. I hate mechanical stuff. Give me the world of ideas and principles---less backbreaking, and when something doesn't fit, don't have to return it to the store.

-Old Doc

A Walk in the Black Forest

"Fifty-six channels and nothing's on," says a line from one of Bruce Springsteen's songs. That's how my own t.v. set functions. But yesterday I discovered the "Sounds of the Season" songs on the music channel. Wow, nothing but one polka and German beer-drinking song after another! Suddenly my feet started moving, and I danced around my living room and right out onto the front porch pass my rocking chair, down onto the sidewalk, and half-way down the block until I couldn't hear the loud notes anymore. I frightened all the birds from the nearby trees and two cats.

-Old Doc

Pat

When men doodle, they draw straight lines and geometric figures such as squares, rectangles, triangles. When women doodle, they draw wavey lines and circles. At my meeting the other day, I found myself subconsiously doodling circles and wavey lines on my paper. Ye gads, what's happening to me? Gotta cut back on so much "Project Runway," "Dancing with the Stars," and "Lipstick."

-Old Doc

(Vice) President Palin

Man, they're not kidding when they say that "In America, anyone can become President." Next I want to see, say, an auto mechanic (a certified one, of course) become president of the American Medical Association, and an astronomer become head of the National Bankers Association. Maybe then we would receive warranties of 75 years or 500,000 miles---whichever comes first---on our bodies, and be allowed to choose particular stars as collateral on our financial loans.

-Old Doc

Baseball and Television

My house lost electricity for a while right in the middle of my "Dancing with the Stars" (go, old timers!), so I couldn't continue watching that, nor play my video games. Although there was enough natural light in the room for reading, I already had finished reviewing the astrological chart of my daily horoscopes through April, so what could I read? Ah, the Bible. Since I've rarely read the Bible, I decided to give it a try. To my surprise I found in it a couple of my favorite things: baseball mentioned, and television forbidden. In Genesis 1:1, it is stated, "In the big inning . . ." And in the Gospel of Matthew, as Jesus is descending the mountain with Peter, James, and John after they were given the vision of Jesus' transfiguration with Moses and Elijah, Jesus tells the boys, "Tella vision to no one." What a Good Book!

-Old Doc

An Apple a Day

As you might recall, my friend, Vincent, is a Northerner who thinks that all Southerners are ignorant and culturally backward. "Vince," I said, "take two apples from three apples. What do you have?" "Don't be stupid," he replied, "the answer is one apple." To which I replied, "No, you have two apples." Vince is also six-foot-four, and throws a heavy punch.

-Old Doc

King of the Hill

School boys don't play marbles anymore at recess on the playground. It's a shame---the game taught immediate fair play in competition, etc. The best marble shooter in my day was my classmate, Ricky, who was also my cousin. Partly because of his sports ability and partly because of his early-James Dean looks and personality, he was Mr. Cool with the girls. I saw him at a funeral a few years ago for the first time after decades. Paunchy and haggard like me, he no longer was Mr. Cool. But Ricky still had all his marbles.

-Old Doc

Cane Was Able

That's what we used to call our beloved cane syrup: motor oil. It was so doggone black, heavy, and potent, we used it as a cheaper and more effective replacement for regular motor oil in our old cars. Never did any damage---our Sunday rides were sweeter than ever. Can't find cane syrup anymore. Now we're stuck with this fancy dancy maple syrup. Maple syrup is made by Canadians, I think. It tastes okay, but, man, my new car just doesn't run well anymore, eh.

-Old Doc

Ars Gratia Artis

I'm no longer allowed into certain movie theaters. No, not because I talk nor use my cell phone during the features, but because of what I do afterward. First, when I enter the theater, I sit in a seat at the aisle on the end of a row but in the darkest section; then I wait. The moment the last scene of the film fades, the final credits start rolling. At that moment, it's still dark for a few seconds in the seats. So I stick my foot into the aisle, and watch as a half-dozen or so patrons trip and tumble atop each other, then I quickly try to hide. If I'm still covered by some darkness, I cry out at that point, "You idiots! Look at the damn screen!" Movie-goers are so American: controlled by impatience and convenience, they have to rush out the theater and into their parked cars and onto their cell phones---just to find themselves in a traffic jam.

Look what they miss by ignoring the ending credits: The credits name those who made the film. We can begin learning a bit about their careers and talents. "Hey, so-and-so was the cinematographer for this movie. Wasn't he the one for that other movie I saw? No wonder this film had those odd-angle shots---that's his pattern. Ah, so-and-so was the director; now I see a particular theme running through the three or four movies of his I've seen. Hmm, interesting---guys of Eastern-European background, e.g., seem to excel in cinematography. I wonder if that has anything to do with the so-called melancholic spirit of their Eastern Christianity?" Where a movie is made is interesting for sociological and economic reasons. Many a movie I thought was filmed in a certain place because it was set there turned out to be made elsewhere. Learn the names of minor actors who in the near future often become major ones. "Hey, I remember that dude in his earlier flick, such-and-such." Ah, the music. Almost every movie ends with an interesting song which not only summarizes the film just shown, giving it additional meaning, but somtimes played for the first time for the public at this credits time, and, bingo, I've heard it before it reaches others on the radio. I grit my teeth and clinched my seat the other day at my latest theater adventure, seeing, er, "Nights in Rodanthe" (yes, the Old Doc has a soft side), as the most romantically sad and new song played during the closing credits---"In Rodanthe" by Emmy Lou Harris---and all the klutzes around me were walking out the theater babbling as if nothing more artistic was being presented to them. And so forth. Finally, now and then a movie's final credits and music have ground to a halt, I unbuckle my seat belt, scoop up to eat whatever popcorn the idiots next to me spilled to the floor, rise from my seat, and, lo, another scene unexpectedly appears on the screen, one which either adds addtional insight to what just played, or one which signals that a sequence to this movie is in the works---and my fellow theater patrons, who are by now sitting in their traffic jam, have missed this.

Well, I just hope that my closet of movie-going disguises doesn't deplete soon---the fall season of new, adult-theme movies is upon us. I wonder if Roger Ebert ever did this?

-Old Doc

Le Crieur

"What's wrong?" the little woman frequently asks me. "Nothing," I reply, "why do you ask?" "Because you moaned again, that's why," she says. "Oh, that," I answer, "you gotta remember, I'm half-French." It was characteristic among French-Canadian Americans, especially the older ones, to release moans/groan/sighs several times a day. When I was a kid, the assistant pastor in my home church was directly from Quebec. When he would be sitting in the confessional and even while celebrating Mass, he would emit loud moans over and over. His fellow French-Americans were accustomed to that, and "les Americains" (the non-French ones) simply had to become accustomed to him. In Cajun-French-American folk music, most of the songs, whether slow walzes or fast two-steps, have sad stories. Thus it's preferred that the male lead singer of those songs have a high-pitch voice which more easily carries the feel not only of the sad words but also his accompanying, frequent moans---hence he is called "le crieur" ("the cryer"). So when Joanie complains about my sighs, I just tell her that I'm an unappreciated musical talent who should be on "American Idol." She tells me to go skin a Canadian moose.

-Old Doc