LEVEL THREE (a novel)
- I am slowly and deliberately deleting all my social sites July 21, 2019
- Sunday Morning (or, My New Ritual) March 10, 2019
- Bait-and-Switch (or, The Sham of War) February 24, 2019
- Your US Postal Service at Work November 17, 2018
- Give me that ol’ time religion. August 13, 2018
eMail me at:
Affirmations, Et Cetera
You: I tried to get you / text you on your cell phone.
Me: I turned it off.
Me: I didn’t want to be disturbed.
(Translation: I didn’t want you asking me for money / a ride / a favor.)
You: What if there was an emergency?
Me: I’m not equipped for emergencies.
(Translation: Call 911.)
You: But what if it was something important?
Me: Define “important.”
(Translation: It’s important only if it’s important to me … not you.)
You: Well, what if it was a family thing?
Me: Define “family.”
(Translation: When you say “family,” you really mean yourself and no one else.)
You: If I ask you, and you don’t want to, just say so.
Me: I don’t want to.
You: [Hangs up.]
Me: [Breathes a liberating sigh.]
War is one of the biggest scams perpetrated on mankind, and here’s why.
Military recruiters will get you to join for a variety of reasons: economic advancement (or what is sometimes known as “economic draft); to see the world (“… or what’s left of it,” and The Three Stooges so brilliantly announced); college grants / loan prepayment; and a host of other incentives.
Once they get you in, then the real sham begins. they mold you and forty other recruits into a “unit.” They build “esprit de corps” or “band(s) of brothers.”
Then they send you into battle. By this time, you would do anything for your brothers, even die for them.
The true tragedy is that the “other side” operates pretty much the same way.
“Waste always makes me angry, and that’s all this is: sheer waste.” (Rhett Butler, Gone With The Wind, 1939)
I ordered this item from an eBay seller in Boston MA. I’m in Malden MA. Your USPS routed it through … New Jersey.
NOTE: Not the seller’s fault; not eBay’s fault.
Another NOTE: It will get here when they said it would. I just think it’s a monumental waste of … everything.
Whatever happened to those plain, simple Sunday Masses.
You remember — the ones with no singing. (Kind of like back-in-the-day when everyone sang the National Anthem at Fenway Park.) I remember when we said the Gloria and the Holy, Holy, Holy and the Lamb of God prayers. I’m dating myself.
I love listening to our Children’s Choir, and our Adult Choir and our Contemporary (Folk) Group sound as good and better than most ‘professional’ artists. But I’d like to be able attend one simple Mass without having to drag my butt out of be at 6 a.m. on a Sunday Morning to attend the 7 o’clock.
And remember when every Mass didn’t have some special ceremony. I’ve come to believe that they should rename the third-Sunday-of-the-month 11 o’clock Mass the Mass for the Anointing of the Perpetually Sick. I’ve seen the same lady go up to the altar for the past three years. She could have save us all some time and just flown to Fatima or Lourdes or Medjugorje. Call my cynical, but I suspect that, were the ceremony held after Mass, there would be far fewer participants.
And speaking of the Children’s Choir, why does the deacon have to have them up on the altar. Here they are, in their Sunday best — yes, some still do wear something more than a polo shirt and a pair of shorts — and the deacon has them sitting on the filthy altar floor. But then again, he wouldn’t have the opportunity to over-compensate for the fact that he did not possess the discipline to become a real priest. I could always take the subway into downtown Boston and go to the Arch Street Chapel, but I’d still have to get up early, as their prime-time Masses also have music. Plus, one takes one’s life into one’s hands venturing in to the cesspool that is the Downtown Crossing these days.
Originally published on 10 June 2012.
Commit a crime and the earth is made of glass. Commit a crime and it seems as though a coat of snow fell on the ground, such as reveals in the woods the track of every partridge and fox and squirrel and mole. You cannot recall [take back] the spoken word. You cannot wipe out a foot track. You cannot draw up the ladder so as to leave no inlet or clue. Some damning circumstance always transpires.