If religion were only as simple as baseball.

The path to salvation is narrow; and as difficult to walk as a razor's edge.

But for those that believe that this place is NOT the end, there is a certain path.  I believe this.  And I believe that the difficulty in walking that path is that it takes work to walk the path pointed out by the Prophet all those years ago, which we are celebrating now.

For me, it does not matter if he was the Son of God; he was Touched by God, and that's enough for me.  And although I love you as friends and relatives, I don't care what you think on this particular subject.

Because that's the thing that came to me in the midst of the worst, and almost unbearably sustained pain I have ever felt*:  the path is narrow, difficult to walk.....and unique to every individual that chooses to believe.

Your path and my path to salvation are not the same.

You can't get me to the next destination, be it Heaven, or a new and better version of this place.

Your beliefs cannot get me there, as noble and as cherished as they are.

Mine only can.




*The pain has eased, thanks to some assisted stretching.  Physicians are touched by God, as well, I find.

When the valve begins to whistle, the proper response is to evacuate.....

There used to be a rule among the students of mine, back in the days when I spent my time in a classroom with my long hair and my moccasins.

The rule was simple:  you could tell the weather by how I walked.  If it was cold, I was walking slowly with a bit of the crippled-up.  If it was warm, I moved more quickly.  And the standing order of the day was, if I was moving slowly and crippled, do not approach if you valued your skin or your self-esteem.  I was known to be kind, most of the time....and I would always apologize for a bitter invective...but I WAS able to lash out, if the day was cold, the pain in my joints was high, and my self control at low ebb.

I was diagnosed with the beginnings of arthritis at a fairly young age; I was 28.  I tried to take care of myself, keep myself reasonably limber, pop the really good pain killers, and laugh when I could.

But there were days when it would be ALMOST overwhelming.

I'm sure there's something to be said for simply GIVING IN.  Just giving up that well-tuned self control, lie down on the floor, and just groan and scream for awhile.  Let it out; it'll be good for you and you'll feel better.

And there have been moments in the last couple of days that have sorely tried my patience.

I woke up a few days ago with a nagging pain near the base of my spine; it made it difficult to walk, naturally, and the resulting compensation for that pain resulted in pretty much twisting everything up into a mess. 

I look like freakin' Ed Sullivan.

And yes, I should be attending to people who know how to fix such things; and yes, I WILL.  Until then, I have my pills and my heating pad and my rapidly increasing feeling of rage.

And an hour ago, a thought occurred to me.

I'm tired of this.

I'm tired of putting up with pain so I can be somewhere, doing something I don't want to be doing at a time in the day when GOD HIMSELF is napping.

I'm tired of twisting myself into a pretzel so I can be considered a "good soldier."

I'm tired of being in recovery.  Constantly in recovery.  I'm not healthy; the damned denial was supposed to make me healthy and I'm NOT.  NOT HEALTHY and NOT HAPPY.

And IN PAIN.

So, come sunrise, I am going out on the roof, I'm going to take a deep breath and I'm going to shout to the rush hour traffic EXACTLY what civilization can do with itself in GRAPHIC detail, and then I'm going to rattle my wrecked ass to the elevator, go down to my car, and either go home and go to sleep or find a tavern that will serve me something large and cold and tasty, along with the LONGEST cigarette ever seen or lit by mankind. 

And I don't care what anybody thinks.


Now.  Which do you think I'll actually do?

State you answer in the form of a question, top it with hot fudge, put it in a box, tie it with a ribbon, and throw it in the deep blue sea.

...........

I have been feeling poorly lately.

Not physically, mind you.  Yeah, I overdid a little on my vacation......but you can't live paces from a beach, and fewer paces still from great food and drink without attempting to turn yourself into something that has its own gravitational pull.

So, I indulged in a deep fried hot dog, loaded to the rafters will all manner of goodness, and yes, Guy Fieri, I ate the whole damned thing. 

And yes, I had a scoop or two from Big Olaf's Ice Cream shop.

And oh, HELL yeah I would have bought stock in Heavenly Cupcakes if I could have; at the very least, camped out in the store and inhaled the lovely morsels.

And you can't go to a baseball game without the various edible props.

So.....I'm a little bigger.  But I'm workin' on it.

Baseball.  I can't say enough about Grapefruit League baseball.  There's a kind of purity to it.  Most of the guys you're seeing in the early days of the Spring are hungry to advance; and without a decided goal, there's a remembrance that it's a freakin' GAME.  And I swear to GOD I saw the ghost of Clemente.  And Puckett.

And no, there's not many better sounds than the sound of a wooden bat on a white ball.

But back to the point.  I've been blue.

I get that way, from time to time.  I call it being, "beyond the capacity to care."

And not caring that I don't care.

So, you hunker down and wait for the storm to pass; and it does, my friends.  No storm I have ever lived through ever lasted forever.  It's only in hindsight that it merely SEEMS to last forever.

So.  If I'm quiet, you'll understand.

Talk to you soon.

Not feeling the writing, but do like the video.

Sometimes, when I think I'm pretty good and pretty creative, I see something like this.

 

It simultaneously makes me want to get up and work harder, and just give up.

 

But within that mental tumult, I thank the God of my comfort that there are people out there that create so that I may envy, and dream, and strive.

 

And to top it all off, it's funny.

 

Crazy in all forms, gathering together like Supastorm Sandy to make my waking life a bitter agony.....

In a kind of tribute to both the current insanity that has become a part of my life, as well as memorial to one particular woman who permanently screwed me up in college, I offer this humble number from Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers!

Enjoy.....

I've had a very bad night, and I'm taking it out on Oscar.

It's that time of year when I admit that I don't watch awards programs; at best, they are nothing more than extended commercials for fashion designers, the studios and their films, and the award winners social and political beliefs.  At worst, they are all of those things as well.

Of course, some are worse than others.

The SAG awards, for example, seems to me to be the most masturbatory of them all.  Actors awarding actors.  The voice toasting the echo.

The Academy Awards, however.....I don't know what it is that grinds my wheat about them.

I mean, there are always surprises; and I'm always grateful for the surprise.  It flies in the face of all reason that some people win, even after all the studios have literally campaigned for the award.

But I think the chief reason is always this.....

The Best Picture Award is for people with really short memories.

The earliest release date for a nominated film was July 5, 2012.  That was BEASTS OF THE SOUTHERN WILD, which had a total box office of 12 million dollars.

SILVER LINING PLAYBOOK was released in September
LINCOLN and ARGO in October
LIFE OF PI in November
AMOUR, ZERO DARK THIRTY, DJANGO UNCHAINED, and LES MISERABLES were released in December.

So, are we assuming that all films released from January to July were crap?

And let's not forget the ageless argument about genre.

I believe that we could arguably place SILVER LINING PLAYBOOK in the comedy genre, strictly speaking.  But the rest......

At any rate......at least we have pretty people in pretty clothes with pretty opinions on pretty subjects, and a pretty orchestra to pretty much shut them up.

But I miss the streakers and the fake Native Americans accepting awards.

But I often wonder what those first awards ceremonies were like, with no television cameras; just a bunch of movie-town folk having dinner and handing out trophies.

But that was fun.

More tales of boyhood, or: It's Like Drinking a Sparkly Cloud.

I'm always really entertained by the idea that I begin each of these posts with a kind of introduction.....of course, it's not a kind of James Michener introduction (he always seemed to begin each of his novels with the beginning of time, moving forward quickly to the current predicament of his main characters), but I suppose it's for the few people who may randomly stroll to my humble ramblings while looking for something else that I do so.  I wouldn't presume to be on the same level as Mr. Michener.  However, I do like to confuse him with the Michelin Man.

I was raised in Detroit, and as such there are certain memories I have that are tied directly to the specific qualities of the city and its suburbs.

Mostly, it is connected to food.

Oh, and with one exception, I always owned an American car.

And there are stories of my upbringing in places in the great city that no longer exist...specifically, Olympia Stadium, Tiger Stadium, and the Hills Theatre.  But I've talked a lot about those monuments at length.

I almost bought some old Tiger Stadium seats last month....but they were the blue plastic ones, and I'm holding out for the old wooden green ones.

I do have a story about the old Olympia Arena and a performance of Peter Pan featuring Olympic Medalist Cathy Rigby....and how I mentioned it to her when I met her about a decade later....and what she said to me....but that's for another time.

But now I'm back to food.....

I've talked about the Sanders Bumpy Cake....a staple for my Birthday; and I would be remiss if I didn't mention that they made a truly excellent white cake with Caramel frosting, as well.

I've talked at length about the Coney Island, which was NOT invented in New York, but down on Lafayette Blvd in Detroit...and how several places are palaces for the good bad food.  They are good with fries, but also very nice with Better Made potato chips....oh, so good.

And there are some people who read my ramblings that know of my fondness for Vernor's Ginger Ale...another staple of Detroit living.  It's an acquired taste...you either like it, or hate it.

My Uncle Tom introduced me at a very young age to a Brooklyn Egg Cream, and they're lovely:  a little seltzer, a little Fox U Bet chocolate sauce, a little milk, and a spoon to blend it to a lovely frothy treat.

My Mother introduced me to the Boston Cooler.

It was NOT invented in Boston.  It was invented at a little parlour on Boston Avenue in Detroit.

Tall Glass.  Scoop of Vanilla ice cream (don't skimp, make it a good vanilla....if you want a really specific De-treat (get it?) use Stroh's Ice Cream), and fill the rest of the glass with Vernor's Ginger Ale.  Let stand for a bit, and consume with both straw and long spoon.

There isn't a hot summer day that goes by that I don't think about drinking one of those lovelies under a shady tree, in a rickety lawn chair, with the chik-chik-chik of a sprinkler serving as rhythm to the day.

Perhaps it the memories of the warm summer days that get me through these almost unbearable winter months.