The following is a direct quote from a marketwatch.com article from earlier today on California's Proposition 8:

"We're talking about seven- and eight-year-old children being exposed to gay marriage in the schools, including being read a book, 'King and King,' that includes a scene of two men kissing. Our opponents want Californians to think that gay marriage is only about two loving adults, but the Supreme Court's ruling has profound consequences for all Californians, not the least of which is what kids will be taught in public schools."

In 2006, a Massachusetts teacher read the book "King and King" to her second grade class, which included Joey Wirthlin. His parents, Robert and Robin Wirthlin, met with the school principal to request that they be given advance notice before such material was taught to their son. The principal disagreed that the school had any obligation to notify parents in advance.

Both the United States District Court in Massachusetts and the First District Court of Appeals decided that schools are not required to inform parents in advance of teaching about same-sax parents. The courts dismissed the Wirthlins' claim that parents have a right to advance notice or to remove their children from the classroom when such material is taught.

They're right, of course. Think of the deterioration of society that could result from such portrayals of sax:

Heather's Mommy Has Two Spit Valves

Daddy's Sectionmate

Why Johnny Has No Reed

Not to mention EVERYONE knowing just how gay all those old big-band tunes are.

Save us from unnatural instrument sex before the lesbians get hold of the trombones!

ETA. I screencapped the page in case they get around to editing it. Meanwhile, I chanced to notice that the Yes On 8 spokesman is named (and I swear I am not making this up) Frank Schubert. Most likely named for the German composer who, by at least one significant account, was gay himself. Der bigot doth protest too much, methinks.

Not quite six months short of the 20th anniversary of his being shown on live television in one of the most gruesome moments in all of sports...

( Cut because, well, it's one of the most gruesome moments in all of sports )

... former Sabres goalie Clint Malarchuk had himself ANOTHER terrible horrible no good very bad day:

 It was a gruesome, bloody moment, and it almost cost Clint Malarchuk his life. Malarchuk, a goaltender with the Buffalo Sabres, had his jugular vein accidentally severed by a skate during a game against St. Louis in 1989.

“All I wanted to do was get off the ice,” Malarchuk recalled last February, after Florida Panthers forward, Richard Zednik, suffered a similar injury. “My mother was watching the game on TV, and I didn’t want her to see me die.”

Malarchuk survived, and in recent years, he has been working as a goaltending coach with the Columbus Blue Jackets. But earlier this week, the old goalie suffered another gruesome injury, and this one was self-inflcited. According to a report in The Record Courier of Nevada, Malarchuk accidentally shot himself in the chin with a .22 caliber rifle on Tuesday.

Malarchuk’s wife reported the shooting. When officers arrived at the family’s residence, the former goaltender was reportedly bleeding profusely from the mouth and chin, and initially refused treatment from paramedics. Malarchuk was transported to a medical facility nearby, where reports indicate he continued to be uncooperative with medical staff. He was later taken by helicopter to Renown Regional Medical Center in Nevada.

Nothing to add, really. Certainly nothing funny.

Good LORD I've missed Pushing Daisies.

SO sweet, yet SUCH black humour. The rapid-fire dialog, twists and turns in the plot, and the acting which is second to none.

Bryan Fuller is a freakin' genius.

Thank you. That concludes this public service announcement.

This is about the longest I've gone without posting at least something in this thing, at least for times when I've been home and around. Friday just left me cold; the post-veep debate mood, and the financial crisis crap, just left me without much to say.

Then, beginning Friday night, things started happening. First, for Em: she was invited to participate in a workshop over last weekend with a fairly famous graphic artist/author named Scott McCloud, and the event began with a lecture of his at the Albright that evening. I'm not the visual-arts parent, but Eleanor had done the Meet The Teacher Night gig the night before and had to work the next day, so I volunteered to take the kid....

and had a wonderful time listening to this guy's views of comics in print, internet and other forms. If you ever get a chance to hear him speak to his passion, by all means take it.

Saturday was then shuttle day for the workshop, for plenty of work I had to get done, and for a birthday party Em attended later in the day. Yes, she's almost 17 and doesn't even have her permit. Yes, we have a perfectly good car for her to use.  More about these phenomena later.

Sunday was a day of work for Eleanor, an evening of youth group stuff for Em, and an afternoon sans football for me, since our local cable company and CBS affiliate are having a hissy at the moment over whether our cable bills should be jacked up to pay for stations we can get over the air for free. We lost miserably and our QB got concussed on the third play of the game, so I didn't really miss all that much.

Then the gremlins returned. Our clothes dryer shit the bed Monday night; my wife, bless her heart, took on the task of troubleshooting it and found it simply needed a good cleaning and a new belt. Easy for me to say, since I had church stuff while she was actually buying said belt and re-strapping it over the drying cylinder.

We thereby dodged only the second biggest unexpected financial bullet of the month. "Emily's car," i.e., the one I bought new eight years ago and drove into the ground commuting to Rochester for six years, a/k/a the one Eleanor's been driving to work for the past few months of $4-ish a gallon gas? Needed its inspection this month. Usually, this is a matter of getting the emissions test to work, but the idiot lights have been behaving lately and I expected smooth sailing. Well, smooth except for the two-square-inch hole rusted into the "subframe" below the steering mechanism, which will take $1,400 to repair even going with a junkyard part.  Needless to say, we're back to spending more on gas for the truck until we can sort this out.

Oh, and then there's the matter of today being the 20th anniversary of my oldest sister's death. I heard from one of her kids and spoke to our other sister on the occasion, and there's plenty of sadness and regret, but one thing we're all sure of is that Sandy wouldn't want us sitting around this day- or any day- feeling sorry for her, or for ourselves, on account of her untimely passing. So I went on to the church meeting tonight and had fun in spite of all of the above, we watched Seinfeld's stupid Bee Movie on the HBO Family channel we're getting in place of CBS during this kable kerfuffle, and I raised my spirits, and now share my love, with each and every one of you for being part of my life, however dull it may seem at times.

----

Confidential to a certain reader from western North Carolina: I'm sorry, but I tried SPN last night. The pilot, anyway, which is as far as I could get. I did my X-Files time years ago, and this just seems like a re-overdose of that combined with some really bad horror movie effects that are just not my cuppa.  Plus at least Chris Carter kept a good soundtrack going; all that AC-DC and other metal is not my idea of a good musical time:(

They asked an actual BANKRUPTCY QUESTION!

Biden: demonstrated a passing familiarity with the law. He knows there are different CHAPTERS of the law. He supports giving bankruptcy judges the power to help fix the subprime mortgage crisis! He has my forgiveness for voting to pass the stupid 2005 law in the first place!

Palin: "I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to file bankruptcy because, uh, some people out there in our nation don't have credit and, uh, I believe that our, uh, education about finances like such as in, uh, medieval England and, uh, the Draconia and everywhere like such as, and I believe that they should, uh, our bankruptcy system over here in the U.S. should help the U.S., uh, should help the England and should help Russia which I can see from my governors mansion and the Asian countries, so we will be able to build up our future for our children."

Followed by, "I don't want to answer that question! I want to talk about ENERGY again! Energy! Drill drill drill Alaska pipeline pit bull!"

Then, "Some of my best friends are abominations in the eyes of the Lord."

ETA Ninety minutes (and one embarrasssing editing error) later, I do believe Sarah's time is just about....


GIF animations generator gifup.com

....up.

This week's New Yorker cover:



(If you don't get it, this should clear it up.)

----

The technology gods are mad at me today. My latest black printer cartridge lasted barely two weeks before petering out, and I couldn't find the second of the two-cartridge package I bought in mid-September. Then, returning from Office Deport with a replacement, Outlook told me I had eight emails, only to go on strike before retrieving them, refusing even to tell me what they were. Four of them were cc'd to a backup account, and I've called most of the usual suspects who I'd emailed myself in the past day to beg their forgiveness for not responding to them.

----

On the bright side, I cleaned the living crap out of this office today in the process of trying to find the missing cartridge; I saved 12 bucks on the replacement by finding four spent cartridges laying about the place; and things look much better overall.

WASHINGTON-- Details of the $700 billion financial bailout bill finally began leaking from closed-door meetings among Congressional and Bush Administration leaders, as all parties gave it their blessing and set it for its initial votes on Monday morning.

House Republicans declared victory in their efforts to limit government involvement in the takeover of private markets, as Rep. John Boehner (R-Ohio) ended his opposition effort begun late last week.

"We managed to cut $34 billion of liberal pork from this bill, leaving us with a lean and mean program tailored to protect the corporations and fat cats that make up our base," he declared.

The remaining $666 billion of bailout relief now goes to the full House.

Administration officials tried to alleviate growing concerns over the overall financial stability in the markets as stock exchanges and banks prepare to reopen for the first business day following the agreement. According to one source, "People would be unable to withdraw cash from their banks' ATM machines for a few hours," if this agreement had not been reached. In response, plans are already in place to replace such access with embedded computer chips on customers' hands and foreheads.

"Those pesky pieces of plastic are soooo 1970s, and bad for the environment. Our company has been pioneering SpeedPass technology for years," said ExxonMobil spokesman N.T. Christ. "This is just a logical final solution to the problem of people losing or forgetting their keyfobs."

Bush Administration officials announced that the President would be accompanied by a traveling circus on the White House grounds to celebrate his imminent signing of the bailout bill. The show will be highlighted by a musical performance by seven seals.

Of all the heroes who marched through that canyon after today's misfiring of our final cannons, I totally surprised myself by the one who brought me to tears.

Despite being all for equality, and generally sensitive, I just don't cry. Not at weddings, funerals or even my own child's birth. The times I can remember from the past 20 years can be numbered on as many fingers as you'd need to count our runs from the final game. One was slushily sentimental, the other a blast of mostly fear. No, I'm not going into either unless you believe there are 50 minutes in an hour.

When the final blast from the final Met fell Oh So Short as so many of them did all year- just as Schoenweis's eighth-inning disaster was fatalistic once his leadoff strikeout of Wes Helms fell a millimeter away from being called as such- I turned the television off and the DVR on. I wanted to enjoy the memories of my only real baseball home on another night, without the ill feelings of these past five hours interfering.

By 6 or so, my wife was home from work and dinner was ready, so I checked to see if the festivities were over, and there was the parade to home plate. Of heroes and characters from so many years gone by, coming down the lines and touching home. These being the Mets, exactly half of them doing it all wrong.

Seeing the lines nearing their ends, I had to keep watching.  I smiled for most of the '86ers, and whooped when Buddy jumped triumphantly on the plate- appropriate as the only man there to be on the Mets' side of the field for both Series clinchers at Shea- and felt sad seeing the age that's caught up to Willie Mays and even more to Ed Charles. But it was the original Number Eight that got my waterworks going for only the second time this century. Seeing Yogi in the only uniform that will ever matter to me, in the stadium where he was always welcome, and at an age where he outlived every other Met older than he, and both the closing of That Other Hell across the river and the life of the man he taught to Gotta Believe? That is what made me cry.

The following footsteps of Rusty and Keith and Mike and Tom, and the scripted moments involving those latter two? Icing on my tears.

Then Copland. What better way to close out the life of a ballpark in a public park than with "Fanfare for the Common Man," and the real thing rather than the Emerson Lake & Palmer switched-on version I actually think of first (until someone invents a musical cure)? For 45 summers, this horseshoe was the home of New York's common man, not the corporate headquarters several miles away with the much more impressive annual reports. It almost always welcomed all comers, and made them feel they were in a special place, not out of entitlement or in deference to legend, but because the Mets stood for everything and everyone. Winning in the finest of fashion on occasion, but way more often losing, but just as often going down in defeat while trying their damndest, as Johan did yesterday and Endy once again did in defeat in the early innings of this game. (Note to Omar: do you think maybe we could've made up a game on the Brewers SOMEWHERE in there when you were insisting on playing "more experienced outfielders" over his enthusiasm? Yeah. Me, too.)

The only other ballpark I witnessed the "last game" at was Rochester's old stadium, a dozen Augusts ago. It was a touching and dignified ceremony, yet it had some emptiness to it, since the Wings had made the IL playoffs that year and we all knew there were at least a couple of games still to be played there. In its own way, having today bring closure- to the season and the ballpark at the same time- seemed right for this team, especially this year's version. They did not collapse as their '07 cousins did- not over the past 17 games, and certainly not today. They lost by inches rather than by miles this time, even though history will record far more similarity.

We may be closing Robert Moses's Pandora's Box for good, but I Gotta Believe that we're not going to be bulldozing the hope along with it once we pave it all over.

"Asbury" is as revered a name among Methodist churches as it is among Springsteen fans.  Yes, they're named for the same guy: Francis A. was the first ordained bishop of my denomination after it moved over from England in the late 18th century (a 19th century Methodist convert from Noo Joisey named his "Greetings From" seaside-resort town after the dude). Most UMC conferences have several Asburies among their churches, and this area is no exception. Big-city parishes in both Rochester and Buffalo took that name in the 1800s, each merged with another on the majestic boulevards of their cities in the 1900s, but then the roads of Asbury First and Asbury Delaware took very different directions.

Rochester's Asbury First, enriched by the millions of George Eastman's inventions and many of his higher-level workers, became the de facto (and, some years later, the literal) episcopal cathedral of Methodism in all of Western New York. Its merged congregations built, and over the years have built onto, a humongous high-church sanctuary while running a very low-church ministry from it. It is, for most purposes, the home church of the entire east side of Rochester, city and suburb alike. I chanced to move to a neighborhood a block away from it in 1984; Eleanor, through a much different route, joined a year later. We met there the year after that and were married in its sanctuary, this Saturday 21 years ago.

Buffalo has always been a bluer-collar, and a much more Catholic-collar, town, and Asbury Delaware never got the endowment, or the prestige, that its cousin did. By the time we moved here in 1994, Methodism had abandoned it to some fly-by-night "independent" congregations, who seemed to spend most of their worship time by gutting and selling off the stained-glass windows and other venerable parts of the building. It went through Bankruptcy Court, and eventually Housing Court after the last of the "churches" abandoned it. By 1995, its exterior stonework had begun falling to the street, and the City, which had acquired it at a tax foreclosure sale, slated it for demolition.

Into such a large void stepped a very small woman. Small of stature, anyway, but never of strength or of determination. Our own native singer-songwriter-record producer, Ani DiFranco, worked a deal with the city to buy the building and remake its interior into a performance and arts space for the entire community, in exchange for the city (a) letting her, and (b) doing the repairs on the outside to make that space safe for everyone, passers-by and comers-in.

The decade since then has returned my never-was church home to life and love, and last night brought us into it for the first time. Briefly rechristened by Ani just as "The Church," she's since renamed the entire complex as "Babeville," but the center of musical action there is the onetime sanctuary, still bearing its historic name now as Asbury Hall. (You can follow the timeline of the building on her site here, with other diddly-bits about its history and new life throughout the Babeville site.)

----

Asbury Hall can hold 800-1,000 for musical performance, and has thus become the preferred venue for smaller acts that the Tralf once held the monopoly on. It did not exist as such a few years ago when Emily and I last saw Dar Williams here, in a similar historic venue that was fun but lacked minor amenities like chairs.

As is often the case with Eleanor and me, it's the getting there that winds up being most of the fun. We decided to head back to Frank's for a more casual pre-show meal. As always, the place did not disappoint. Shrimp and penne for the bride, veal with manicotti for moi. We didn't get the waitress we most often do, but on learning of our anniversary, our new one became our newest friend there. Turns out she's just short of her own 20th anniversary, and we chatted and laughed over doggie bags in-the-making over how retro it is to stay married that long in these complex times.  As I paid our tab, the owner's wife told us that we'd been served by her sister, known around the waitstaff as "Josie the Bull" for a beyond-her-height ability to haul trays full of pasta no matter how heavy they get.  Before we left, we were served free (and very real) cannolis to pass on Frank and Josie's best wishes for a marriage well led.

Even the parking lot held magic. The sky at that hour (a bit after 7) was an amazing combination of pinks and purples. "Pinkle," I pronounced it. Then, next to our car was the most awesome set of jowls I've seen since Nixon resigned. They were on a gorgeous, well-behaved and, above all, LARGE Great Dane who was holding down the car while his owner got takeout.

----

The show awaited, and it, likewise, did not let us down.

Shawn Mullins was the opener. He told some great stories between numbers- about the television show Scrubs asking him to write a song for an episode, him sending them a (in his words) "lousy demo" that he expected they'd either reject or ask him to record in studio, and then hearing it at the end of an episode in its raw demo form. (The real thing's the first track on his new album Honeydew, titled "All in My Head.")

We never heard him do his "monster hit" (as his touring partner Dar insists on calling it) "Lullaby," but he talked a lot about it. Its sudden AOR-radio fame struck him by complete surprise, and he went quickly from the coffeehouse circuit to opening for the likes of the Backstreet Boys at venues he'd never set foot in for any other reason.  The song also became a hit in Australia, so he got sent there, too- and within an hour off the plane in Sydney, cops were yelling out to him that they recognized him. "Yaw Shawn Mullins, mate," he quoted them in a dead-on Aussie accent- and proceeded to follow a paddy wagon of drunken cops around for most of that night.

----

Our experience with Shawn was much more sedate. Truth be told, we didn't make it through his whole set, much less get to Dar's. (We did get to hear her sing, though; she comes out to do backup on his "Beautiful Wreck.") We're getting to the age- hell, we're past the age- where we can do dinner and a show after a full day of work apiece and not make it through the opening act if they keep going past 9 p.m. Still, we Supported Our Local Musicians, got to know a beautiful new venue, and shared as much love in an Asbury sanctuary this time as we did 21 years before.

Okay. Uncle, already.

When several of you started going on about something called "Mad Men," I kinda meh'd. I knew nothing of the thing and instantly confused it with Mystery Men, a film from 1999 which I similarly meh'd off my radar at the time because (a) it flopped and (b) ewwww, it had Pee Wee Herman in it.

We'll be back to THAT mistake in just a moment. Meanwhile, just now, I saw my beloved author Joss making a Mad Men reference, only to the "season one" thereof, and that's when I finally grokked that this is something completely different.

So what's the dealie? Is this on DVD, or is there some other way to pick up this trail from the beginning? It's not like I'm gonna be watching BASEBALL after tomorrow or anything ::grumblegrumblegrumble::

----

Meanwhile, I seem to have done unjustified self-slander to the thing I confused the series with.

Mystery Men actually looks like a lot of kickass fun. Somehow all I remembered from the time was it being a post-Pee-Pee vehicle for Paul Reubens, but dude. A guy that fights crime by farting at them?

And how. The. FUCK?!? did I miss this cast? William H. Macy, Hank Azaria, Janeane Garafolo, Tom Fucking Waits?!?, and Eddie Izzard?!?!?!?!?!?

Most of all, though: why does our library system not carry such amazement? ::netflixes his little finger off::

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Thus ends the first post du jour. Still to come: something far mushier about last night's anniversary outing, guaranteed to include the words "Dar," "bull," "jowls," "pinkle" and "yaw Shawn Mullins, mate," spoken in a dead-on authentic Aussie accent. BY Shawn Mullins.

Also, a post about shoes, of all things, but that'll be on the Met blog. And not just because I'm waiting for the last one to drop.

This is what our neighborhood McDonalds looks like as of today:



I waited about a day too long to get by there and shoot this; as of yesterday, the late 70s dark-red-brick exterior was still visible in huge piles on the ground, and the sign was even still up in front.

The restaurant had a fire sometime last year, and the building closed; I always expected it to reopen, since there are tons of office parks and medical practices all around there with very few other places to get quick eats nearby. No idea if a new Mickey D's will rise in its place, or if Amigone (the funeral home next door) has designs on it for, I dunno, a crematorium or something. That would sure give new meaning to the term "grilled to order."

My biggest regret is that I didn't get there before they cleared away the remnants of the drive-through. I knew exactly what I wanted to order from a demolished kitchen that had been closed for close to a year:

A rubble cheeseburger, a six-piece chicken mcmaggots, an order of flies, and a large orange fence.

I promise, that's the last of my tacky 70s disk jockey humor for the week.

Uh uh! Don't touch that dial! There's excitement galore coming up in the next hour when you'll hear....

Barack! Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck ::glass shatters::

[reserved for really bad photoshopping of McCain's head onto this once LJ starts uploading pictures again:]



McCHICKENNNNNN MANNNNNNN!

(he's everywhere! he's everywhere!)

The most fantastic crisis-fixer the world has ever known!

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John Sidney McCain, a mild-mannered man employed in Phoenix as a bank teller at the Charles Keating Savings and Loan, spends his weekends, his only two days off, striking terror into the hearts of Democrats everywhere as the white-winged warrior called McChickenman!

Return with us to the thrilling days of yesterday, to the secret Rovecave, located under the grounds of one of the eight Stately McCain Manors:

THE ROVER
It's no use, Winged Warrior. The Dementiamite still hasn't worn off, depriving you of your cognitive powers.

McCHICKENMAN
But the debate is just two days away! I have to learn, like, world capitals, and colors and stuff!

THE ROVER
A-ha! We've got it! We'll announce you're going back to Washington to help FIX this crisis!

McCHICKENMAN
Um, didn't Phil Gramm and Carly Fiorina and most of my other advisers CAUSE the crisis?

THE ROVER
(cackles)
Idiot fowl! We don't SAY that part! We have to make you LOOK all presidential, at least until your sidekick, Pregnant Ivy, can take over next February!

McCHICKENMAN
But...but....buck...buck....I can't duck a debate! I have to look like a war hero!

THE ROVER
Leave that to the Swift Boat ads! Right now we'd rather you look like a live duck than a dead chicken!

----

Enter PREGNANT IVY, with her hockey stick and lipstick.

P.I.
Winged Warrior! You won't believe who's on the phone! It's the OBAMANATOR, asking if you want to make a joint statement about the crisis to go above and beyond politics.

THE ROVER
(twirls mustache)
What an opportunity! Tell him our girl will get back to his girl! Then, run out and announce it yourself like it was YOUR idea and try to get them to call off the debate!

McCHICKENMAN
Does that mean I don't have to wear this burly radio receiver under my costume anymore?

P.I.
Of course not, Grampa. That still has the cattle prod implant in it in case you get out of line again.

----

And so it was that the world was saved again for democracy (or what little is left of it), thanks to the noble efforts of the man, the woman, the henchmen all behind,....

McCHICKENNNNNNN MANNNNNNNN!!!!!

Sorry. Not buyin' it.

It sounds noble enough, bipartisan enough. It's not even unprecedented. Buffalo's own two-time onetime President, Grover Cleveland, chose not to campaign in 1892 against incumbent Benjamin Harrison when the latter effectively suspended his own campaign due to his wife's serious illness. "If my opponent chooses not to campaign, I will choose likewise," Cleveland declared.

That resulted in perhaps the dullest Presidential campaign in US history- and also resulted in the Democrat kicking the Republican's ass for his delayed second term.

This whole "focus on the economy" thing just has an eau de Rove stink to it. Maybe it has more to do with this week's polling numbers, showing Obama out to a 9-point nationwide lead over McWrinkly and citing the financial crisis as the source of the old boy's trouble. What better way to recapture that ground than by looking all presidential and bipartisan (after months of pandering to the nutjob base with the likes of President-Elect Palin)?

The timing's also suspicious. The Republican administration has been orchestrating these bailouts and buyouts and demands for quick action (although rich-guy stuff like CEO compensation is a "separate, and complex issue" that needs to be studied more),  just in time to hit a fever pitch riiiiight before McCain's first debate. This after keeping him (and President-Elect Palin) away from the press for most of the past six weeks; just yesterday, they let McSame out of his cage yesterday to meet the press for the first time since July, and he spent most of the time, according to one foreign review, full of sound and fury, but signifying nothing.

Don't buy it, America. Don't buy it, Obama. You better believe the Swiftboat Class of '08 won't be suspending their efforts. This is just a lot of smoke and a really old mirror. And who needs a friend of the Keating Five to help fix the economy, anyway?

My high school years weren't much for the books- at least not for the yearbook. I did the geeky things: band, newspaper, school magazines, Honor Society. I'd have been stuffed into lockers if I hadn't been six feet tall by the time I was 15. 

In those primordial politically correct days, though, there was the one activity the yearbook wasn't allowed to mention: MYF. Though we laughingly referred to it as "Meet Your Flake," it was actually the Methodist Youth Fellowship which I joined in my freshman year (while still, technically, a junior high 9th grader) and continued in, as a participant and eventually president, for all of my high school years. These were the truest of true friends, who I spent virtually every Sunday night with, along with many a retreat and youth gathering and Ovnoc (our palindroming of "Convo," an areawide Methodist youth convocation which continues to this very day). Our World War II-era parents were moving away and falling away, so the church itself stopped growing in those years, but we countered that by inviting, and welcoming, all of our friends of every belief- Lutheran, Catholic, even Jewish. By my senior year, we were dozens strong and committed to our faith and to each other. Sunday nights were the most important times of the week, when we got to decide what was important to do, and say, and be.

Then, college broke up that old gang of mine, and I never found quite the same connection with church people for well over 20 years. In time, Emily made the decision to be confirmed, but then also had to decide whether to continue in active participation. I've always believed that she should have the same chance I did to find that way herself, so for eighth through tenth grades, she was a very occasional participant, never in the activities of the youth group.

Then God/Fate/Time/Whatever intervened.

A minister asked me to help fix some stuff on the youth leader's computer. Checking internet connections made me need to bring up SOMETHING, and rather than show off something as heinous as this blog, I pulled up the site where Em displays her artwork. (Email me if you're interested; I just don't want to put the address out there for the world at large.) Among her work there is a t-shirt design that she created through CafePress as a school service project to support the local SPCA. Our youth leader oohed, and ahhed, and chanced to mention that the youth group has been trying to get a t-shirt designed for years. Would she, could she, possibly be interested?

She was, and would, and a week ago tonight, she went to the group's first meeting of the year, on a no-obligation, no-minister-will-call basis to sketch out a basic design for the thing. They loved it, and just as important, she loved them- and decided on the spot that she wanted to be a part of the group for her final two years of high school.

----

Then came another call. Or calling, perhaps.

Our congregation was way ahead of the curve in developing a "safe sanctuary" policy for all aspects of our church in which adults interact with kids. The basic tenets are (1) there must always be two adults present, preferably of opposite sexes, whenever kids are involved, and (2) all of those adults need to be trained, and even background-checked, to be sure the twosome is an appropriate one. I'd already learned of these rules when I agreed to work with the confirmation kids, but they became even more pressing when our youth leader's male counterpart suddenly announced that his grad-school commitments would keep him from being Adult Number Two for most of the Sunday night meetings.

Would I, could I be that person, at least for this suddenly open week?

At first, I had to say no. I had That Trial to prepare for, beginning tomorrow. Yet as soon as that settled, I knew what call had to be made, to let them know that I could make it to keep the group going for at least another week. And so it is, I have just returned from my first MYF meeting in more than 30 years.

The comfy sofas are the same. The free-form artwork on the walls, likewise. There's not as much of a musty smell, but that's because this group meets in the church rafters versus mine which was resigned to the church basement. The wide eyes of enthusiasm, and the lack of cynicism, and the genuine love for God and for each other, though? Just like I remember it. They want to save the world, and cure cancer, and fast for 30 hours for another worthy cause, and return to Appalachia to rebuild homes- all between their incredibly full (in comparison to Emily's, and especially in comparison to my) school and secular activity schedules.

They ended with a silly game, much like the [damn, Dennis, can you remember the name of it?] board game we got hooked on playing down there for the last two years of the Ford administration, and then with a devotion which used song and prayer and togetherness in the same way we always did.

Part of me feels like I never left. And while I can't be their co-leader every week, I will do everything in my heart and head to make sure they are not forced to disband on account of adult indifference.

Emily made a housework proposal to me a few weekends ago, which I gleefully accepted. Our feeding routine, for years, has been: I feed the teeming hordes in the morning, she feeds them at dinnertime. Ideally, this occurs on the sixes, but if the aminals had their way, it'd be more like 3.

Now that she's back in school and needs to get up early anyway, she offered to trade me five tasks for two: she'd do all the weekday feedings (subject to availability) if I dealt with the weekends, morning and night. Seems I was waking her up with my routine, so better if she just did it.  This has worked out beautifully on the mornings the lunks don't all come and wake me up anyway, but it also led to some amazing discoveries as I did the rounds both times yesterday and again this morning:

Our cellar is breeding a bloated, incoherent form of bumblebees.

----

I'd found dead ones down there at various times earlier in the year, which I assumed had hitched lifts with the assorted plants that Eleanor winters in the greenhouse section of the cellar. These buggers, on the other hand, are, at best, Mostly Dead- and on at least two occasions have chosen cat food receptacles as their places of demise. (One was in Michelle's bowl last night, the other in an empty can near their feeding area the previous morning.)

We suspect they're getting in through the dryer vent, and are being carbon monoxided to near-death as they take that route. Each of them, so far, has received a fragile return trip to the outside world, usually after shoveling each into the empty cat fud can and then covering it momentarily with the peeled-off lid, just to keep from getting stung. (The one from last night was still conscious enough to let off some serious protests in there until I returned Buzzy safely to the outside ground.)

My late mother and sister are spinning in their graves as I write this, since both were petrified of bees. Don't worry, though; I promise never to take it THIS far:

Well, except maybe tonight.

The Case That Could Not Be Settled? Which took 36 hours of my life (two of them billable) to travel to and prepare for last week because it would never, EVER, settle? Settled. I still have court Monday morning, but just to recite the terms of the settlement and, God love them all, to set the date for me to be paid for those two hours and a dozen or so more.

Today's all-day seminar, requiring me to stand at a podium and wreck my vocal cords for most of the morning and early afternoon? In the can.

The Mets' magic number to make the playoffs? Likely to drop by a single digit despite their current 2-1 losing status in Hotlanta.

Life? Good. Damn good, Joe.

"Oh, look, honey! Another sword!"- George to Brad, inspecting the loot pile at the reception.

"It is a good day to wed."- unknown Klingon guest.

"Make it so."- Officiating captain.

"BEST WISHES TO THE HAPPY COUPLE STOP COULD NOT ATTEND DUE TO INABILITY TO SECURE INEXPENSIVE FLIGHT STOP"- telegram from William Shatner.

"Awww, how romantic. I think I'll put a Mary Sulu into my next novel." -Walter Koenig.

"Resistance is futile."- The entire assembled company to the wingnuts protesting outside.

I usually get these right. This one, not so much when Eleanor shared it with us. I added a couple variations of it I found online and de-obfuscated one of them.  Answers are screened. Winner wins a 750 ml bottle of



Schwarzenegger has a big one,
Michael J. Fox has a small one,
Most people don't know if Madonna even has one,
The Pope has one but doesn't use it,
Clinton uses his all the time,
Bush is one,
Mickey Mouse has an unusual one,
George Burns' was hot,
Liberace NEVER used his on women,
Jerry Seinfeld is very very proud of his,
We never saw Lucy use Desi's.
what is it?

----

Congratulations to the three winners, all arriving within a minute of each other: Elbie, Becky and Jenn, who knew that "it" was

( Read more... )

Our church is offering a 10-week study of a book entitled Reading the Bible Again for the First Time.

By noted theologian Marcus Borg.

It's about time Christianity started proselytizing this way. It will, however, require some modest modifications to the text:

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for they shall be assimilated.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be assimilated.
Blessed are the meek, for they shall be quickly assimilated.

...

If your brother strikes you, modulate your shield frequencies. If he randomizes his weapon seven times, modulate your frequencies seventy times seven.

...

In the beginning was the Borg, and the Borg was with God, and the Borg was God. The Borg added all biological and cultural distinctiveness to its own. We saw its glory, in the shape of a cube.

....

There'll be a few more like that, here and there, plus naturally the need to rename the main character as "Second of Three."

I rolled back in at just about this time last night. Most of those 24 have been spent catching up on the home front, sleeping, catching up on the work front, sleeping some more, and, finally, catching up on the cyber front.

The raisin-day-entree for this whole absence was for me to begin preparation with a client for a trial scheduled to begin a week from Monday. He'll be away next weekend, so it made sense to go out to his shop, about a 450 mile trip, to review the documents and other stuff. Making it all the more sensible was the fact that one of my nieces lives not far from there, and I had a lovely time with her, her husband and their cat, beginning Thursday night and again before hitting the road for the client yesterday morning.

Nicole and I each have milestones surrounding her mom. I'm about to turn 49, the final birthday her mother lived to see. She, in turn, just turned 35, the age Sandy was when she had her. There were no literal ghosts in the house (although I did bring along a bottle of wine from one of our favorite Cayuga Lake wineries, bearing the name "Apparition," in honor of a ghost supposedly haunting a barn they recently moved to the winery grounds). Nonetheless, when two or more of Sandy's relatives are gathered, she is far more emotionally present among them.

In this case, in the oddest of ways. Nicole's stepmother has been clearing her childhood home of many of the older memories of her dad, who we lost last November a day before his 70th (and my 48th) birthday. Fortunately, she's made sure that Nicole, especially, has had the chance to claim these treasures, however strange they might be. "You won't believe what she found," she said to me, bringing a small wooden box to her dining room table.  Instantly, I knew, and believed:



That, beloveds, is a music box- a creature of its times, from early in the late 60s marriage of Nicole's dad and my sister. Turn its crank, and push the button on its side, and to the tune of Smoke Gets In Your Eyes, it dispensed, yes,.... cigarettes.  I can't find any reference to such a beast on eBay, and it looks handmade, so I am seriously considering the possiblity that her father made it by his own hand, with touches of both woodworking and irony-working that would have been quintessentially Jean-Pierre.

We're trying to puzzle out a new use for the box, since blessedly, nobody in our family smokes. Smarties are too thick for the ciggie holes, DumDums are too tall. Emily suggested candy cigarettes, but that just seems cheap.

I stayed in a guest bedroom that just exuded our family. Pictures of her father, my mother, and other memories of the lives that led us on the starts of our lives. They haven't quite turned out as they might have been planned, but they've been full of love, and laughs, and even occasional adventures, and I, for one, wouldn't try to stop the music box from playing the song it has- toxic substances and all.

----

It occurred to me, sometime on my drive back Friday, that I'd missed another occasion in all of this. Twenty-four years and (then) twenty-four hours ago, one of my favorite correspondents here came into this world. She keeps busier than many I know of twice her age, and I never fail to smile when I see her words, or her smiling face, or the good she does in this life. Happy belated, thatyousay:)