This Catholic: On Cussing and God

Cussing is bad manners.  Writers do take artistic license, using those words in context of a character or a quote. But cussing, per se, isn't a sin. Only some.

Use His name in vain and you've gotta ticket to the hot place. Call your little brother a 'fucker' or a 'dick' for wetting the bed you have to share with him, you'll probably feel a parent's hand delivering an ass-whacking or the family's style of punishment,  but I suspect you'll have steered way clear of eternal damnation.

When I sail the f-bomb through blogosphere seas, I sometimes think, 'Shit. If I ever get a reader-- a follower who actually reads this drivel--I may get a nasty-gram or comment about my F-filth and their f-f-faith.'

Some words are dirtier, and you probably agree; there are terms you feel uncomfortable using or hearing. The one that rhymes with 'runt.' The aurally similar phrase to 'cotton rock sucker.' Hearing someone use the synonym for 'mammy-jammer.' Not nice. But a ticket to Hell?

Jesus. My tradition asserts He was like us in all things but sin. All things. A-L-L. On faith, I buy that, and were I Protestant, I'd probably say, "because the Bible tells me so," (which it does).

I don't see it: Jesus rousting the money-changers from the temple, saying "C'mon fellas, darn-it. Dag nab you, quit annoying me because you're getting my goat! I'm telling you, leave, by-gum!!" My opine is that he was angrier and his words reflected it. Short of sinning by using his Father's name, I think he really did let 'em have it and may have included the Effer.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones but words...." Bullshit. You have feelings. I have feelings. Feelings can be hurt. And words can be an inflicting weapon. Words can hurt. Do.

If you disagree, okay. If you wonder, 'What's the point?,' here it is:  Before you rock someone's boat, apply my 'CRADLE' rule (Context. Respect. Attitude. D iscretion. Locale. Environs.) that you may tiptoe lightly...for, you may not like whom, or what, you awaken.

At Mass. In Church. I Answered and Spoke on My Cell Phone.

There's probably a special flavor of Roman Catholic gehenna-hell (green fire?) for what I did on Friday, October 21st, so embarrassing that I'm just now confessing it to you, my 6S brothers and sisters because I'm too chicken to face the church music just yet.

I had gotten up at o-dark-thirty in time to iron a shirt and drive four miles to the cathedral, where some thirty folks were spread among the expanse of seating for 3,000 and you need to know the circumstances.

That Mass was one for which I'd made an offering to pray for my sister's healing, and it was her birthday, and it was on her birthday a year ago that my brother, Jack, died, and I'm sitting there when the cell phone rings to my surprise (that it's on, that it's in my pocket, that I'd even bring it INTO church) and we're only one prayer into the Mass with my cheery-chimey ringtone echoing to the pseud0-rafters, TWICE, because I couldn't answer the first ring in time.

"Hello??," I whisper and hear, "This is the Phoenix Police, are you okay?" to which I reply in a whisper, "YES! I'm at church, in Mass, I'm okay" to which the officer replies, "SIR! THIS IS THE POLICE AND I CANT HEAR YOU---ARE YOU OKAY," at which I attempt to cup my hand around the cell's mouthpiece and attempt a louder 'stage whisper,' saying, "I'M IN CHURCH AND YES I'M OKAY!" to which the officer says, "Your phone is breaking up, this is the POLICE, and ARE YOU OKAY?" to which I reply, in full, booming, mega-bass voice, "YES, I'M OKAY."

I do the next ruder thing and exit the pew, turn my back to the priest who's probably pissed but serving the non-rude 29-or-so others, and once I'm in the vestibule, I tell the cop where I am and why, and he says, "The panic alarm has gone off inside your house and we have officers, on-scene!"

Forget me considering asking for my Mass offering back because I only caught the first 243 seconds of it, but the best parts of this happened later, as The City will bill me $75 for a false alarm, my neighbor sent me an email asking why four cop cars and a "paddy wagon looking thing" (they sent the SWAT team?) was in front of the house at 6AM, my dog can't reach the alarm panels and I suspect dead-brother-Jack was messing with me, and if you think I'll feel comfortable walking into Saints Simon & Jude Cathedral in Phoenix anytime soon you definitely don't have a grasp on...need a compass for Catholic guilt trips, and now I'm prayin' to Jesus that (because it was the Cathedral) it wasn't the Archbishop there on the altar, because, you see, I was busy talking on my cell phone to the po-po and turning my back to him to leave the church while leaving the other faithfully devout with something to harrumph about all week and into aeternum

A Binary System Perspective

binary system: “A system in which information can be expressed by combinations of the digits 0 and 1.”- Dictionary.com

Binary, in perspective:

1 – “It’s the loneliest number that you’ll ever do.” Three Dog Night lyric from smash single, “One,” ABC Dunhill, 1969.

11 – the second, as a replacement-synonym for “junior,” e.g. Pope Paul II. [Could we Catholics ever call a the Vicar of Rome, the successor of Peter, the Holy Roman Pontiff, “Junior“(?!)]

111 – Balls (you’ve almost walked); Strikes (yerrrrrrr OUT!)

1111 – Forty-one minutes past my bedtime; the year Henry V was crowned ‘Holy Roman Emperor’

11111 – Yahtzee!

111111 – Friday, November 11th, 2011–If you haven’t done it before, take the day off to wear a stars ‘n stripes pin and pack a cooler with sandwiches and drinks. Drag some cheap lawn chairs down to your local veterans parade because it’s Veterans Day. Sit and wave and smile and sip and munch and reflect and enjoy. If your town doesn’t have a veterans parade, conduct your own with your children or grandchildren. If you‘re alone and your town doesn’t have a parade, buy a big flag and march around your block until someone asks what the hell you’re doing. Please refrain from showing him your binary middle finger for his ignorance, choosing peace for the moment it takes to educate him.

#

MudSpots Theme: Missing Numbers

Cabin's Closing

Griff started at sun-up, when the air temperure may have been forty, boarding-up the rough-hewn cabin his family used as a weekend retreat just 2 hours' drive from Phoenix.

The structure was notched-log construction, started by his grandfather, and finished by Griff's dad and him when Griff was still in early elementary school.

He closed the main and drained the water pipes, a by-design capability his ingenious dad had plumbed to keep pipes from bursting.

The board-up, an annual event in which he sought solace, used as meditation born of physical labor, was as necessary for protection from animals as much as it was from hunters and vandals.

Elbow on his knees, Griff sat on the porch's edge resting his feet upon each of the two weather-splintered steps, his plaid Pendleton soaked in the sweat of achievement's endeavors, enjoying his bologna sandwich, a little black coffee from his Thermos, and opened a small bag of Fritos.

With his thumb and index finger's first foray into the bag, he felt he was being watched, turned to see a squirrel not eighteen inches away staring him down, and Griff sat wondering on the winter the furry little guy would experience as he surrendered the whole bag, chip by chip, hand-feeding the squirrel with a silent request that he be a herald to the other wildlife to watch over the cabin securing Griff's best childhood memories within and without.

Phoenix' Nighttime Meals from Wheels

Strings of unfrosted bulbs, a few flimsy tables and chairs, and foods ranging from 'Sonoran-style' hot dogs to tacos, menudo and burritos are shibboleths of the impromptu restaurant boom that's emerged and been sustained in commercial parking lots and on corners, all over Phoenix.

The mobile fonditas seem to cater to Mexican palates, efficient little kitchens-on-wheels whose operators are themselves, Mexican-American (or Mexican?), and the number of these food-stands is staggering.

The Ramirez Brothers used to operate one helluva fine taco trailer along a side street in the 'Old Town' section east of thee Rio Cuale in Puerto Vallarta, and I enjoyed their fare countless times without hesitation or illness.

My friends--even licensed travel agent colleagues--know my love of Mexico, its beaches, sleepy coastal towns, warm and generous populace, a love I rationalize (in Spanish) as "In my heart, I'm really a Mexican" to the laughing agreement of my Mexican-national friends who tell me when I'm tan enough to resemble a native.

That said, it's a little unsettling to drive down the streets of Phoenix, Arizona, USA, and see that, at nighttime, it looks so much like the streets of 'old' Mexico, except that these patrons can enjoy their alfresco repast with relatively little fear of gunfire.

These eateries represent an emerging, local industry and have discovered a customer base that seems accustomed to eating regularly at these outlets, as I did in Vallarta, except that--unlike our Canadian and Michigan-Minnesota-Wiconsin snowbirds---the customer base won't be going anywhere anytime soon.

Toilet Paper Budget Blues

The upper and lower shelves on 30 yards of the toilet paper aisle have me on T.P.-labelling overwhelm: 12 Rolls=24 or 36 or 48, Quilted, Triple-Soft, Softest, Double-Strength, Strongest, Scented, Textured, Quilted, and combinations, therein... and do you really think I care which roll my hand grabs in those indelicate moments of extreme need?

If Consumer's Reports has done an analysis of the wisest choices for the papered complement to the porcelain saddle, I haven't seen it or heard about it. My puchasing decision dilemma on the toilet paper aisle is moot once they price the stuff per pound because it doesn't take a math genius to know we're paying for all that air in every fluffy roll.

Those tire-sized rolls in some public facilities offer enough paper for shitloads of visits but you also know that it's so thin you could lay that paper across the classified ads and they'd still be legible.

Why not consider the diaper pail concept of old, using diluted mouthwash (follow low-bottom drunks to the cheapie mouthwash sale at Walgreen's) or vinegar to keep from blinding yourself from lid-lift fumes, and how great it would be for recycling old tee-shirts--maybe dollar-store sales of cheap-o washrags you can quarter--with the collateral benefit of how little overnight company and entertaining you'd suffer once word got out about your commitment to EcoFecoGreenOnomics.

The pail system seems a better option than having the plumber reconfigure my bathroom pipes for ass-recycling of the daily newspaper since Sears catalogs have gone by the wayside (and probably caused paper cuts).

Tristan and Evelyn

Tristan was born two years, two months, two days, two hours, two minutes and two seconds before his little sister, Evelyn. but they might as well have been twins.

Tristan skateboards to Greenleaf Elementary every day with Evelyn walking beside him, and he carries her lunch in his backpack because that's what an older brother should do for his little sister.

Tristan caught one of his fellow seniors making fun of Evelyn because of her bookish personality, unremarkable looks, modest clothing and, for his trouble, Tristan caught a right hook bloodying his nose, earning a trip to the nurse and catching a 3-day suspension for fighting.

Evelyn's vice president of the senior class, has a 3.7 GPA, and lives to read Tristan's letters about him and his Marine buddies, overseas.

A Navy chaplain and Marine Corps captain just left the house.

Tristan and Evelyn are lost.

You Just May Be the Perfect Girlfriend

You don't ask me for money or s-e-x. (And when you do have to assuage that erotic itch with some hard-chargin' scratchin', you don't bring him around or hurt my writer's-sensitive feelings by giving me the blow-by-blow descriptions play-by-play details of your romps.)

We fulfill each other's hugs and dinner companion and movie-snugglin' quotients without any pretense.

You trust me with your emotional vulnerabilities and secrets which boundaries I respect, even knowing that sharing life's same jostling roller coaster car will naturally cause some bruising in the relatively few good spins I have left.

You don't mind that I don't like beer and do mind that you can't cook worth shit because it propels me to pick up the check, alot, when we dine out, whether it's Burger King or Benihana.

Hey, this is pretty okay until the eventual virus of "more" or the "L-word" infects one of us, the terminal outcome for which there is no vaccine, so... for now, thanks :x

Self-Diagnosis and Prognosis

He spilled his story, sat lost in thought before the psychiatrist recalling how he got there. ‘Other guys’ wives run off with cops but they don’t get sick with ’Mood Indigo,’ Melvin thought.

His friend, Gabe, pleaded, “You need help, Mel!" on seeing the apartment trashed, the coin collection strewn about, learning Melvin abandoned his bowling team, lost the vice presidency of the model train club. But the goldfish and hamster, dead of starvation and stinking forced an intervention.

Dr. Engvaldsson asked, “You say ‘Mood Indigo...‘ because it was a cop?!”

Melvin brightened, “Classic case! I read it on WebPsychHelpLine. Mood Indigo’s a condition of jilted spouses experiencing devastating consequences from extramaritals with cops!"

The psychiatrist retorted, "Jilted? Your wife’s sexual appetites changed, you didn't buy-in...don't like rough stuff, dress-up, or bondage. Might that drive her into the arms and handcuffs of that so-called ‘kinky’ cop?”

Melvin blanched, teeth clenched, freed his stare to glance at photographs behind the doctor’s desk.

"You’re selfish. You own your consequences. It’s pity-potted depression, not 'Mood Indigo.' Build a bridge. Get over it!” chuckled the blonde doctor.

Adrenaline launched Melvin over the desk, grabbing the letter opener in a clumsy lunge, but he missed. The blade angled into Melvin's own over-aged baby fat.

Melvin's blues were actualized in a navy blue prison uniform (for attempted murder). Prison foreplay inflicted purplish-blue bruises, his rape occurring in a checkered-blue tiled shower, ignored by blue-shirted guards. The infirmary was blue. Blue like the eyes of Engvaldsson's children.

[MudSpots Theme:  Sinatra's "Mood Indigo"]

I couldn't make this up.

Priests come by every few days to comfort her as calendar pages fall closer to a 93rd birthday she may not see.

Her eldest daughter's calendar is about to mark the thirty-day anniversary of a double mastectomy. The daughter's daughter, just 40, continued to nurse her son of ten months until exploratory surgery revealed a rare cancer thriving within her.

Three women...mothers...daughters, all in one bloodline, all waging different battles with different defenses and strategies and chances, with compromised defenses.

Worded comfort seems to offer little, leaving me to provide presence and prayers--yet I'm feeling as flat as those calendar pages which eventually, relentlessly render extinction to all known memories.

Parachutes don't guarantee soft landings, especially the times you know y0u can't even jump.

The End of the Line?

The medicine cabinet's door clicked as its magnet paired with the frame's, and Adam stared at himself. Holding his image with his eyes, he rotated his head slowly to stare at the bright welt across the whole side of his face, bumpless and redder than razor burn.

The argument didn't require loud just as a silencer doesn't affect the deadliness of the fired bullet. Every disonant moment in their relationship came to mind, like grouped strands becoming braided and the braids becoming part of a rope, and all of the goodness they shared incorporated into other grouped strands completing the rope.

The silent conversation continued in, and with, Adam's eyes, 'Is she...are we...is life worth it.'

Was a noose tolling their end at the terminus of this rope, or was it a dangle of hope and promise, a rescue line onto which he could affix a grip, pulling himself, pulling both of them with all he had as promised in his vows to her, up from the daunting chasm into which their marriage had fallen.