Off to darkest Orange County, there to chat with the folks at Loyola Press – I think they’re in town for the RTBE – about that little book of mine they published. And from there to Ojai, land of the Pink Moment, where some nights you can get your bliss on by just standing outside and inhaling, so powerful is the scent of orange blossoms. Back Sunday. As my dear friend who somehow ended up a Manhattan lawyer living in Park Slope used to say when he signed off – be good.
It occurred to me in the shower this morning, as I bellowed my way through my morning songlist, that They Might Be Giants is among the few pop bands (as opposed to country) I know that makes consistent, quality references to drinking. Off the top of my head:
Self-titled debut album:
Well, I ain’t feeling happy
About the state of things in my life
But I’m working to make it better
With a six of Miller High Life
- from “Alienation’s for the Rich”
Lie still, little bottle
And shake my shaky hand
Black coffee’s not enough for me
I need a better friend
- from “Lie Still, Little Bottle”
She never called me baby-doll
I never had much pride
But now I rock a barstool
And I drink for two
Just pondering this time bomb in my mind
- from “Lucky Ball and Chain”
Now let’s toast the sad, cold fact
Our love’s never coming back
And we’ll race to the bottom of a glass
So narrow your eyes
- from “Narrow Your Eyes”
Meet James Ensor
Belgium’s famous painter
Raise a glass and sit and stare
Understand the man
- from “Meet James Ensor” (Admittedly, the weakest reference in the bunch.)
Full bottle in front of me
Time to roll up my sleeves
And get to work
And after many glasses of work
I get paid
In the brain
- from “Your Own Worst Enemy”
And there, alas, my love affair ends. Haven’t bought any since. But what a run! I knew there was a reason I liked these guys!
…is there any finer sign of encroaching middle age?
Got a lump carved out of my neck this morning. The wife encouraged it. I fought her on it, but when the thing grew a mouth and started talking – and I don’t know where it learned that sort of language, I swear – she suggested that I take action.
In the end, I agreed because I feared it would turn out to be more a more interesting conversationalist than myself. Trumped by the lump – the stinging shame of it!
Yesterday’s News Today, per usual…
Burger King has, to their great credit, revived the Burger King himself in their ad campaigns. Now, every king has a court jester – a fool, a … clown. Let’s see…are there any burger-related clowns out there who could be cast in the role…hm…
It would make such a great commercial. Ronald, the King’s Fool.
“Your Highness, instead of flame-broiling, why not FRY your burgers?”
“Ha ha ha, Ronald! The things you say! Truly, you are the greatest fool any king ever had.”
I just finished an interview on Relevant Radio. During the interview, a fellow called and said that he and his wife were, it seemed to him, some of the only Catholics he knew who practiced NFP. He wanted to know how to put it out there, how to present it, how to explain it. My answer wasn’t too stellar. Mostly, it was this: admit it’s a hard teaching. Admit it’s diffficult to understand. Suggest that understanding is not essential to obedience – “trust the Church implicitly,” as Cardinal Newman advises, especially if you believe that She is on the side of love. Suggest also that God will surely not be unhappy with the sacrifice you have made in obeying His Church – even if you didn’t understand exactly why you had to do so.
But I’d love to hear how y’all would have answered.
First Son can be our toughest nut, emotion-wise. So it was amazing to see him literally jumping out of his seat with anxiety, rage, and sympathy as we watched Heidi. Heidi, with Shirley Temple. I thought he’d be half into it, at best. Wonderful to see what stories can do.
Or rather, yesterday…
So I was heading down to RCP Block and Brick to get crushed rock so I can line the bottome of the ginormous new flowerbox we had built for the wife for her birthday – which was yesterday. RCP is next door to Little Darlings, an establishment whose bubblegum-pink exterior has faded considerably over the years. (I was at RCP a few years back for decomposed granite for the front yard of last house – we were going for the Provencal look, lavender bushes lining the edge, etc. It’s all grass and sprinklers now. The place was pinker then.)
The first thing I noticed was the ice cream truck in the parking lot. “Urgh. Dude goes straight from selling Bomb Pops and Fudgsicles to getting his jollies, doesn’t even switch to his civilian car. That’s just nasty.” Then, as I passed by, I saw the sign on the side of the truck: Mrs. Frostie. “Mrs.? Some girl working on a second career, gets off her shift, throws on jeans and a sweatshirt and heads out into Kiddieland?”
Wrong again. On my way back home, I checked Mrs. Frostie again (go ahead and cast aspersions; I surely deserve them), and there was a young lady standing at the side of the truck, staring up into it and deciding upon her order, just like any expectant kid would do. Except she wasn’t exactly a kid, and she was (half) dressed for work. The woman inside was very much a Mrs. Frostie – middle-aged, matronly.
Not sure what I can add to the image by way of comment, so I’ll leave it at that.
“Memento mori? You must be joking. I can hardly forget it.”
Okay, so insofar as the devil has existence, he is loved by God. After all, if God didn’t keep willing the existence of a thing, it wouldn’t exist, and existence is a good, and willing the good for something is loving it. Right?
So I have to explain all this when Second Son asks me if God hates the devil. (Here’s what haunts me behind that question – my forbidding them to say they hate anyone, except the devil.)
Months later: “Dad, shouldn’t we love the devil? Becuase God loves the devil.” (Missing middle term: we should love as God loves.)
Let the distinctions commence – while you try to help make dinner and calm the crying baby, etc.
…says the man. ” Just sit down and your desk and open a vein.”
He’s right. That’s the easy part. Getting someone to read the stuff, now that’s the trick.
That goes for blogging, too. What does it mean when I find that, during the month that I quit linking to outside stories, I get what is far and away the lowest number of visits to the blog since its inception? That’ll teach me to write poetry…