The Little Gem

I don't know why I'm feeling religious lately---I've never been a religious person. Anyway, I forgot to remind you on April 11 that that day was the commemoration day of Saint Gemma, a young woman who died in the early 1900s in Italy. What I find remarkable about Gemma is her stunning beauty. I kid you not; google "Saint Gemma" to see photographs of her on her website. As I've said before, I have a crush on a dead saint of a century ago. I think God will punish me. Last year on April 11, when I mentioned my Gemma crush to others, the only fine-food Italian restaurant in town, the one I really enjoyed, suddenly and unexpectedly went out of business.

Where Does Little John Fit into This?

The new movie, "Robin Hood," appears this month in theaters starring Russell Crowe as Robin, Cate Blanchett as Maid Marian, and Matthew Macfadgen as the Sheriff of Nottingham. It's a big-budget romance adventure, and I'll see it, because I'm a sucker for Robin Hood movies and King Arthur movies. But I don't know if it'll outdo the romance of the smaller, underappreciated 1970s film, "Robin and Marian."

In "Robin and Marian," Sean Connery plays an aging Robin who comes out of retirement to fight the Sheriff (Robert Shaw) and to reclaim his old-flame Marian (Audrey Hepburn). Two kinds of romanticism in two different scenes kind of summarize the power of this movie. In one, Connery and Shaw descend their horses, and prepare to engage each other in one-on-one sword combat. Facing each other, they draw their swords, but suddenly each one drops to one knee, and jabbing his sword into the ground in the manner of a Christian cross, says a prayer before fighting his opponent. In the other scene, the final one, a wounded and dying Connery has Hepburn at his bedside. He orders Hepburn to bring him his fabled bow and arrow. Then with his last bit of breath and strength, Robin Hood draws and shoots his arrow through the nearby open window, telling Marian to bury him wherever the arrow lands.

Many critics think, as I do, that the 1960s and '70s were the modern golden age of both movies and rock music. Or maybe those critics and I are now just cranky old goats.

Scared Cows and Sacred Cows

I see some evangelical preachers and their congregations saying that the Hurricane Katrina disaster and now the Gulf oil-spill disaster are God's ordained punishment for the wickedness and lack of religious faith in New Orleans with its French Quarter lifestyle, voodoo, gambling, etc (read: Catholicism). Yet those same preachers, when they or their relatives fall to some serious disease or accident, don't blame that condition on God's punishment or on evil spirits. Well, some do---in the sense that now and then some of them do nothing but pray over their ill relatives instead of also seeking medical help. Then some of them allow these ill persons---even children---to die, followed by praying over their house-kept bodies for what they believe will be the bodies' imminent resurrection.

Persuasive stuff. Hell, I'm beginning to believe that my mad-cow disease is God's punishment for what I did to those two bovines in the field when I was a teenager. (Please, don't ask me for details.) Maybe God is Hindu.

You Can't Fool Mother Nature

It's spring, and the little woman is going crazy outside weeding and planting her garden. Now she's bugging me to drive her to this and that garden-and-flowers show or demonstration.

I think that if there was a big gardening conference, and you took the podium to give a speech in favor of fast-motioning gardening, I bet you'd be booed right off the stage. They're just not ready for that.

Oh, Christ, Not Him!

I read that a woman in Massachusetts has been cited by police for hitting a pedestrian. The walker's real name is Lord Jesus Christ. I don't want to see Christ forgive the driver---I want to see him sue the woman in court. That should be much more intellectually challenging (church vs. state; omniscience vs. accident; etc.) and much more fun to watch.

Go Stand in the Corner by Yourself

Speaking of New Orleans: I love blues and sad music. Last week I finally saw the recent movie, "The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call: New Orleans," starring Nicholas Cage and set in the Big Easy. In the final scene of the film, a stirring, slow, blues song plays in the background but for only ten or twenty seconds. But, man, it's just about the saddest, soul-gripping song I've ever heard: titled "Mother Died." Turns out it's by the New Orleans blues-jazz group, Washboard Chaz, of whom I hadn't previously heard. Try to hear it.

A problem arises: If I enter heaven when I myself die, what am I going to do when the choirs of angels and souls will be singing and hearing joyful, praiseful music for all eternity, but I'll be wanting to hear and sing only terribly sad music for all eternity?

Cyclic History

Playoffs, playoffs, nothing but playoffs on tv these days! What do we have---two-hundred teams in the N.B.A. playoffs through June, JUNE? All sports leagues might as well do what "The Onion" recommends: Let all teams which feel like their deserve to be in the annual playoffs be in the playoffs.