All the Fuss about Guns

All the fuss about guns.  If Tucson, AZ, isn't battling the Republican legislature, it's something else.  I haven't held a gun since I turned in my captured SKS assault rifle at the end of the Vietnam War (for me).   But I get it.  My friend from Kentucky likes to go hunting.  The Latino guy who gave up most of his guns says he kept a .45 and keeps it by the bed at night.  His old neighborhood's changed and not for the good.  What I don't get is people who think they need to strap on a pistol to go to In-N-Out Burger.   Personally,  I doubt there's a real need for a gun in every household... although if Phoenix doesn't hire some more cops soon we may all need to be armed ... I'm not planning on replacing the SKS... yet.

The Matter with Medicare: Grandma and the Faith Healer

As if passing out in church and being diagnosed with a horrible disease weren't enough,  the hospice provider sent a spiritual caregiver to look in on our devout, little old Italian grandmother.  Our still fiery Grandma.   The visit started out just fine, just another pleasant person for Grandma to talk to.   Then Grandma asked why the woman came to visit... this is where the woman got into trouble ... she was there to give Grandma spiritual comfort.  Grandma said: "I'm a Catholic, the priest already comes to see me and take care of my spiritual comfort (shit for brains)."   The woman replied, "Oh, don't worry,  I can pray over you and give you communion."  Grandma was outraged, but kept her cool on the outside ... the spiritual caregiver left, never to return.   And the next time the priest came to visit, Grandma had something to talk about when he heard her confession.

And you wonder why Medicare is going broke.

My Observant Little League Team

For a long time we'd had trouble rounding up kids to play in the local Little League.  Best we could do was two teams for my son's age group.   Just too much going on these days and for the boys who wanted to play ball, the best players wantrd to play on competitive club teams that cost a lot, and I mean a lot, to join.  The hotshots weren't interested in Little League where the "weak" players were allowed to participate.

Two teams playing each other all season isn't much fun and it's not much fun to travel across town all the time to find more competition.   My neighbor had an idea.   His brother belonged to an Ultra-Orthodox Jewish congregation and he thought they might might have some kids who wanted to play.  It turned out that they did... on the condition that there'd be no games on the Sabbath... Friday night and Saturday.  I volunteered to coach the Observant team, which had a mix of the Observant and other.   The youngsters actually got along very well. The non-Jewish, especially the Mexican kids, were miffed by boys with long curls hanging down next to their ears, yarmulkes instead of baseball hats, and tzitnit tassels (knotted ritual strings) hanging down from the waist.   But the boys liked each other... even when the Orthodox said no thanks to yummy snacks.

Everything was going fine until Passover.   Some of the Orthodox said they couldn't play.  Problem.   We didn't have enough players to play without them and Little League, in its infinite wisdom, doesn't allow you to play without nine players and you're not allowed to borrow players from another team.  Worse.  If we wanted to field a team for the Little League All-Star tournament,  our players were required to play a minimum number of games during the regular season.  Little League is really too complicated.

Solution.  Consult the team rabbi.  Thank God one of the parents stepped up.  We talked it over and the rabbi gave me a ruling that the observant players would only have to miss one game.  Season saved.

Why Didn't Castro Speak Gaeilge

Did it ever occur to you that a younger Fidel Castro looks a lot like Irish actor Liam Neeson?

Might have something to do with Castro's dad being from Galicia in the north of Spain.   Castro is the Roman word for a Celtic hill fort.  There's bunches of hill fort ruins in the Spain.

Italians need to remember [Ed like to write the Irish need to remember columns] that when Hannibal of Carthage had the Roman Republic on the ropes, Scipio Africanus saved the day by defeating the Carthaginians in Spain and then invading African where Scipio defeated Hannibal at Zama.   The key to Scipio's victory was an alliance with Spain's Celts.  Years later after Scipio was gone, his descendants turned on their allies and, in a very rough way (remember Numantia),  took over running things in Spain and made everyone speak Latin.  

Even more years later Marcus Aurelius, a Spaniard, became one of Rome's greatest emperors.  We commemorate the day of his death every March 17.

The Great Wall of Trump

My teenage son is brilliant.  He asked why no one "get's butt hurt" about the Great Wall of China... as in everybody's butt hurt about Trump's wall, but China's wall is a tourist attraction.

Hadrian's Wall

The Theodosian Walls.

Hundreds of years from now people from all over the world may come to Arizona to see the Great Wall of Trump. It might even become a world heritage site.  Imagine Mexicans shouting "We paid for it!  The tourists belong to us!" Conservationists demanding that the approaches to the Great Wall of Trump be declared a national monument. Yaqui and Tohono O'Odham fighting over the casino rights.

It's times like these that fill me with great sorrow and regret... that The NY Times satirist Russell Baker has retired.

Gigante Gorda Senora

My wife's boss was an unpretentious Irish-Catholic woman of great height and girth.  Devout, she had dedicated her life to her faith and the well being of poor children and their mothers.   With complete indifference to personal gain,  she built a small organization into one of Arizona's largest health care plans. 

On a site visit to a clinic in Tucson some years ago, she arrived early for the meeting and the receptionists asked her to take a seat until the director could see her.  She sat down and patiently began to wait.   The young receptions started to speak to each other in Spanish.  Forgot to mention that my wife's boss grew up in Chile and was a fluent Spanish speaker.  The receptionists were commenting on the fat lady's height and immense waistline.  Instead of being offended,  my wife's boss sat and listened.  Never said a word... until she got back to Phoenix and told her staff what she thought was an amusing story about the young women who thought Spanish was a secret code.

Adrian Fontes: Rock Star

Adrian Fontes, ROCK STAR.  

What dads will do for the love of their daughters.   I took my 14-year-old to the Hillary-Bernie rally at Central High on Sunday.  Hillary couldn't make it so Adrian filled in and warmed up the crowd.   He did a hell of a job.  He's what Elizabeth Warren would be if she spent four years in the Marines.

What I don't get is why a bomb thrower is running for county recorder.  Maybe he'll dress up the poll workers in pink coveralls?  

Bernie!  Bernie!  My daughter was thrilled.  I was less thrilled cause I really had to pee by the time Adrian stopped talking and Bernie started.

To add to the excitement my daughter even got to see real live placard carrying communists as we marched out the Central High exit.   I haven't seen any of those, dead or alive, since the Vietnam War... Arizona continues to amaze and surprise.

The Bear

This is what the grizzly bear looked like when it hopped on the hood of my car at the entrance to Yellowstone Park,  looked me in the eye and started drooling on the windshield.   My friend Larry and I were on an adventure to work on a farm in Oregon when the bear waylaid us.   After the bear started drooling in my face, I stepped on the gas and the bear rolled off the car.   We left him in the dust and headed to see the Old Faithful geyser... where we made sure to keep our distance from the animals and other dangerous attractions.

Thursday's Mystery

Here's what I did last week.  Life is pretty quiet around here for the retired.

After some guy in LA, an alleged Marine, asked me two days in a row for five bucks to get back to Camp Pendleton, I usually ignore beggars.  But last week I stopped for a pair.

There's two guys on the corner of 20th and Camelback in Phoenix.   One guy's begging and the other's sprawled in the dirt.  The guy sprawled the dirt got my attention.  Krap.  What if the guy's dead.  I can't drive by and leave a dead body lying in the street.

So I stop and roll down the window.   When the live guy walks over, I ask:

"What's up.  Do you guys need help?  You got water?"  

"Waaataah!"

"OK, I'll get you some."  

So I drive off and stop at Danny's at 20th and Highland for two big bottles of water.   You remember Danny's.  It was Danny's for years when the Phoenix PD used to take their patrol cars down from the Squaw Peak Precinct to have the illegals wash them on Saturday morning.  All very mellow.

Ever wonder why Sheriff Joe never raided Danny's?   Probably one of the Joyful Mysteries?   Maybe Ed Montini of the Arizona Republic has the inside dope on that?  Now Danny's is Jackson's and still has full employment,  Squaw Peak is the Mountain View Precinct, and 20th and Camelback, which was headed for the Bonfire of the Vanities (the South Bronx), has a Whole Foods, Trader Joe's, LA Fitness and limited parking. 

I get back from Danny's, which is now Jackson's, found an empty spot in the Bank of America parking lot and walked over to the possibly dead guy and the guy begging on the corner.   The guy on the corner is having a bad day.  People are stopping their cars to talk to him and he's waving get lost and shouting Fuck You at them... for who knows why. 

The live guy walks over, takes the water and shakes my hand.   I look down at the possibly dead guy and shout.

"Hey, buddy, how ya doin'.   Do you need help?"

A guy with a neatly trimmed beard and a slick one-piece black bicycle suit and white helmet that matches his beard -- a college professor type -- cruises by me on an expensive bicycle -- probably on the way for a snack at Whole Foods -- says:  "Leave him alone he's sleeping."

The possibly dead guy stirs, rolls over, opens his eyes, raises up on his elbow and pulls a small black Bible out of his pocket.  Still mostly sprawled in the dirt, he waves the Bible in the air with his free hand.

"I have all the help I need!"

I look at the live beggar and ask him if I should call 911.  The live guy manages to slur out.

"Call 911.  I can't take care of him anymore."

So I called 911.   I was reluctant to do it, but it's 10 am and already 100 degrees in the high Sonora desert.  If the possibly dead guy stays sprawled in the dirt, he'll be a for real dead guy by noon.   You just can't drive off and leave a guy to die next to a Bank of America parking lot across from Whole Foods.

The firemen must have been shopping for provisions at the Fry's across from the Whole Foods.  They arrive in about five minutes, lights flashing, weaving through the heavy traffic on Camelback.   The team gets off the truck, including a medic in green scrubs.  They have no interest in talking to me and head for the possibly dead guy.  Their captain kneels by the possibly dead guy and tells him:  "I'm sorry, but you can't lie down here."

The live beggar slurs to the firemen:   "I can't take care of him anymore."

As I drive off, I can see the firemen kneeling around the possibly dead guy, working through the fire department's protocol for dealing with the homeless.

We too will behold the transfigured Jesus on the Last Day.

The Dragon and Joseph Smith

(Or how I ended up sleeping in Barbara Smith's bed)

I was pretty sad the day the Mormons left town.  Roddy Zurenborg was my best friend, big brother and protector.  When his family moved away I lost my body guard, and the neighborhood became a dangerous place for 10-year-olds.

That was it for the Mormons until many years later when I moved to a western Missouri town just outside Kansas City.  Who'd have thought that the town of Independence was the spot where the Mormons believed Jesus Christ would land when he returned to Earth.  Who knew that there was more than one flavor of the Mormons -- The Reorganized LDS, Temple Lot, Cutlerites and Restoration Branches headquartered at Independence.   The Utah Mormons even had a visitors center there to be close to the action when Christ returned, and were apparently very bent out of shape that the RLDS (now known as the Church of Christ) owned the deed to Christ's landing pad.

In addition to Jesus Christ, Harry Truman was Independence's other famous returnee.  He retired there after being president.  I wish I could have asked Harry Truman what he though of the religious politics of his old hometown, but he died a few years before I arrived.  There was a very nice larger- than-life bronze statue of Harry on the town square.

I got myself a small apartment on the outskirts of town near a new middle school and a cornfield.  The apartments were new. too.  A year before they and the school had been part of the cornfield.   A few years later the city acquired what was left of the cornfield, dug a hole for a pond and turned the land into a nature preserve.  You'd be surprised how fast the trees grow back.

The apartments were like a college dormitory, young and very social.  That's how I met Big Bob, Barbara and her husband one day after work.  Bob was out from New Jersey, doing some specialized construction work on a hospital in Kansas City.   I never caught what Barbara's husband did.  Barbara was a gorgeous, vivacious redhead with short hair and freckles.  One part of an obviously loving couple.  Barbara we learned was the great-great-great-great granddaughter of the Mormon prophet Joseph Smith.

Big Bob provided most of the entertainment: good drinking buddy, nonstop talk.  If someone was giving you the evil eye in a bar, Bob would tap them on the should and they'd think better of it and walk away.   Bob was really big.  Bob was also a babe magnet.  This I never understood.  Maybe it had something to do with animal magnetism and smooth talk.

Paradise lasted awhile until one night over a beer Bob announced that Barbara had run off never to return.  Her husband moved out of their apartment and was soon gone too.  Someone told Bob he could have their furniture and  since Bob didn't need it he gave it to me.  I returned all my rented stuff and took over Barbara's.  That's how I ended up sleeping in Barbara's bed... sans Barbara.

Louie, The Greek

The doorbell rang, my mother opened the door, and a man dove into the room.  He did a paratrooper's somersault, sprang to his feet and shouted:   "Hi, I'm Louie!  Where's Jimmy!"

That was my mother's introduction to my father's lifelong friend Louie, the Greek.  My father (aka The Dragon) met Louie one summer long ago at Long Beach, New York, just outside New York City.  Louie's uncle had a food stand on the boardwalk by the beach and little Louie got to spend summers with his uncle.

"We were best buddies.  Two scrappers.  We fought like cats and dogs.  Father Joe over at St. Mary's taught your father how to box.  Marques of Queensbury Rules.  I didn't know any rules."  Louie said with a wink.

It was the Roaring Twenties and Prohibition.  Long Beach was a destination for the affluent and smart set.  It's political leader was Lorenzo Carlino, Lucky Luciano's lawyer.  One night my grandfather was taking a walk on the beach and a cop stops him.  "Mr. Mac, you need to go home now."  The cop winked and grandpa got the message.  Bootleggers were landing a boatload of booze that night.

In the movies Long Beach was home to the Godfather and, in fact, there was some of Lorenzo Carlino and the local gangsters in the Godfather's Don Corleone.   In real life, though, Long Beach was a demilitarized zone.   Sonny never got gunned down at the toll booth on the Long Beach causeway from New York City.   It was a summer playground for Louie, dad and their friend Eddie Handy, another wild kid.   Eddie didn't survive the war.

After the war, Louie became a Nassau County cop.  My father became a lawyer.  He might have become a cop like Louie or a mechanic -- he liked fixing cars -- but his mother wanted him to be a lawyer. 
"You're going to law school, Jim." 
"I didn't apply, Mother."
"Jim, I talked to Agnes Muldoon and she talked to Felix (Agnes's henpecked husband) and Felix talked to the dean at Fordham.  You've been admitted to start in the fall." 

Imagine Felix Muldoon one of the most connected politicians in New York State, a guy who, in Chicago's smoke-filled room, told Flynn to back Roosevelt, having to go hat in hand to the president of Fordham Law to ask a favor. 
"Father Gannon, it's Felix Muldoon.  Do me a favor.  Agnes is on the war path.  She wants her friend's son Jimmy Mac to go to law school.  He's a good kid.  Regis, Holy Cross.  That's right his father's gone, the one who lectured at the school of Social Work and sent the city's public school lunch trucks to the Catholic schools as well.  Yes, Wagner's friend.  Great.  Call me when you need a favor.  We should do lunch next time you're downtown."

One good thing came out of Jimmy's law degree.  When the City of Long Beach health department tried to shut down Louie's uncle's boardwalk business -- no bathroom -- Jimmy worked a deal with the city to grandfather in the food stand sans bathroom.

Jimmy didn't like being a lawyer.  When he moved the family to Levittown, he started all sorts of little businesses that he and mom ran: an insurance agency, real estate, selling toys at the farmer's market, a travel agency.  He should have been wildly successful on a booming Long Island, but competition was fierce.  The insurance agents teamed up to provide insurance to the local school kids.  Then one year somebody in the consortium secretly submitted a separate, lower bid and got all the business.   Later the car dealer called up and said he loved doing business with my mom, but his bank told him no more loans unless he bought his insurance from the bank's agent.   The travel agency became an obsession.  It wouldn't work unless the agency had airline tickets it could sell and Jimmy literally had to take the case to the Supreme Court to get the tickets.   Then one day the office building where the travel agency was located burned down.  When the smoke cleared, the safe with the tickets was gone.   Jimmy was beside himself.   The tickets and the ticket validator were worth millions of dollars.  If they were lost, he'd be ruined financially.

Desperate, Jimmy called the Nassau County police chief, another old Long Beach friend.  The chief said:  "Sorry, Jimmy.  We've done everything we can.  That safe of yours is at the bottom of the Great South Bay by now."

Jimmy called Louie.  By then Louie was a detective in the county police department.  Louie said he'd help.  The two of them drove over to the ghetto in Hempstead and found the bar where the office building's janitor hung out.   Louis said: "Wait outside, Jimmy."  Louie came back after a few minutes.  "Here's the deal.  No questions asked.  We can pick up the safe in a half an hour around the corner."  A half an hour later, they had the safe... no questions asked.

Louie was a solid guy.  He gave anyone a chance to be reasonable... no questions asked.  One time he got sent on a hunt to bring in a murderer.  He tracked the guy to an apartment in Harlem.   Louie burst through the door, into the apartment.   On the other side of the room stood an angry black man, 6 ft 4, 250 pounds.  He was holding a big axe.  "I'm taking you in,"  says Louie as he pointed his Official Police Colt revolver with it's powerful .38-44 high velocity bullets at the man.  "Put down the axe and lie on the floor, or I'll blow your fucking brains out."  The man glared at Louie, but after a few tense minutes decided to be reasonable and put the axe down... no questions asked.

One day Louie and the other detectives get called into the DA office.  It's a new DA.  "We're taking in all the Mafia over in Long Beach and Point Lookout."  Silence.  Then Louie pipes up.  "Why!?  That's where they live.  All their business is in New York.  There isn't a crime out here in Nassau County we can charge them with."  The DA glares at Louie.  "Just do it."

So Louie and his partner get told to bring in Joey D for questioning.  "Christ!"  says Louie.  "That guy lives down the street from me on Point Lookout.  I've got to arrest my neighbor for nothing."

Louie and his partner drive over to Point Lookout, past the toll booth where the mythical Sonny got assassinated,  over to Joey D's house, and they knocked on the door.   By then the cat is long out of the bag.  Joey D's lawyer answers the door.  Louie tells the lawyer it's the police and the lawyer goes berserk.  F and A and SOB bombs are dropping so hard Louie's starting to have D-Day flashbacks.  Joey D runs to the door and screams: 
"Stop! Leonard! For heaven's sake this is my neighbor.  I'm so sorry.  Louie?  Is that right?  You're Louie from down the street." 

"That's right, sir, I'm Louie Sarantopolis from down the street.  I'm also a Nassau County police detective."
"I know."  Said Joey.
"I'm sorry, Mr. D., we have to bring you in for questioning.  It's not our idea.  There's a new DA."
"I know.  Don't feel bad about it," said Joey.  "I'm sorry for your trouble.  Would you like some coffee.  Can I show you the house?"  

"Sure," says Louie.  His partner is starting to think they've fallen through the rabbit hole and they're in Wonderland... so's Joey D's lawyer, Leonard.   They all have coffee and take a tour of the house.
"You have a very nice house here Mr. D., but we have to go now."
"I understand," said Joey.  Then genuinely contrite, Joey hands Louie and his partner each a $100 dollar bill:  "I am so very sorry for this trouble, Louie."

Louie's partner looks at the $100 bill in shock and says, "Christ! We can't take this, Louie."

Louie looks at his partner and says, "Relax.  It's my neighbor.  He's just trying to be polite." Then Louie whispered, "He wouldn't expect anyone to sell their soul for 100 bucks, especially in Nassau County where he doesn't want any trouble."

After he retired,  Louie got a job as body guard/driver for Senator Alfonse D'Amato, who was raised in Island Park, just across the channel from Long Beach.  It was a decent gig.  D'Amato and Louie seemed to be warming to each other.  One day, D'Amato invites Louie over to a party at D'Amato's house.

"Hey! Stella!  Put on your best dress.  We're going to a party at D'Amato's house."

Louie and Stella show up at D'Amato's, D'Amato greets them at the door, says "Hi, Louie" and then hands him a bartender's jacket.  "I need you to handle the drinks tonight."

The next morning Louie called D'Amato's office and told them to find another driver.

Dinner with the Dragons

Mama Dragon works hard at preparing family dinners.  She's a great cook.  The little Dragons don't appreciate it.  Sister Dragon only eats vegetables now.   Brother Dragon only eats steak.  Papa Dragon likes sauces, Mexican food, and steaks, but won't touch the vegetables sister Dragon likes.  Mama Dragon is a saint.

Lately Brother, who's about to go to college, has been staying at table long enough to ask questions:  can you be married by the church, but not by the government?

Papa said, yes, this is possible, but almost all people married by a church would record their marriage with the government.  There are some polygamous cults who might not do this to avoid being arrested for bigamy.

What's bigamy mean, asked Sister.

Bigamy's where a man marries more than one wife at the same time, said Papa.

I don't see why the government should have a law against that as long as the wives don't mind, said Sister.

We wouldn't want the young women to be exploited by older men.  Some of the cults do that, said Mama.

There are already laws against exploiting girls.  Why should the government stop people from marrying who they want, said Sister.

It would make God unhappy.  Doesn't that bother you, said Papa.

I don't want to make God unhappy.  I'm just playing Devil's Advocate, said the 13-year-old.

Papa Dragon tried to change the subject:  who knows what surrogate means (stepping into his own trap).

Brother jumped at the opportunity to get into the conversation:  That's like the Family Guy episode where Lois has a baby for the two gay guys who live next door.

Er ... that isn't exactly what I had in mind, but, yes, it is like Family Guy, said Papa.

KIA Klucker

Some drunk called him a wop so grandpa threw the drunk through the window at Wikey's bar.  Uncle Joe had to go down to the police station and bail out grandpa.  Moral of the story: don't say the W word to Italian guys whose arms look like Rocky Marciano's on steroids... even an old Italian guy.  "The only thing I'm sorry about is I broke Wikey's window and we were on the first floor."  Fortunately for grandpa the judge was an Italian gentleman who let him off with a warning.

Wikey's was an old storefront neighborhood bar in East Boston near the Blue Line Orient Heights station.  Grandpa stopped there at the end of the day on the way home from the North End where he ran two vegetable bays for a wholesaler.   When the old guy died who owned the vegetable bays, grandpa inherited them.  He was the son the old guy never had.   When grandpa died his oldest son, Uncle Emil, sold the bays, too bad.  If he'd held onto them they'd been real valuable after they built Quincy Market, but Emil was in medical school and Uncle Joe had a union job with the power company.   They didn't have time for the vegetable business.

The vegetable business needed watching.   My mother-in-law, Phyllis, remembers getting drafted to go through records and sort out how much one of the employees had stolen.  That's when she found out where the oranges grandpa brought home to kids came from.  As she watched through the office window, she saw her dad get pissed off at something and throw a crate of oranges against the wall.  What was left that wasn't spoiled went home to the kids.

Grandpa hung out with Klucker and the guys at Wikey's.   Klucker lived in a car parked in a vacant lot a few blocks down the street.  It was the Depression.  It wasn't unusual for people to live in vacant lots.  On holidays and some weekends, grandpa brought Klucker and other vacant lot dwellers home for dinner. 

When the war came, the draft board managed to find Klucker even though his only address was Wikey's.   He got KIA somewhere.  Maybe Europe.  Maybe the Pacific.   The Army sent the telegram that Klucker was gone to Wikey's.   The bar's a tattoo parlor now.

Spanish Mass: Corpus Christi, Cuerpo de Cristo

My Gaeilge speaking grandmother's family was permanently at war with the village priest.  Who knows when and how it started.   My Aunt Kathleen was the smartest girl in the village.  By the time she was old enough, the feud became so spiteful the priest denied her a scholarship to go to college.   When Uncle Ned joined the Irish Republican Army and the Easter Rebellion,  the priest denied my great-grandfather Michael absolution for refusing to turn Ned in to the British.   Michael didn't know where Ned was, but he'd be damned before he'd tell the priest that.
"You're damned, Michael Lafferty!"
"See you in Hell, Priest!"

First Communion: ad maiorem Dei gloriam

Still, the family said the rosary every day.   For the rest of her life my grandmother kept the tradition.   When we asked her why she prayed so much, she said:  "Every act of your life is a prayer."   We never figured out what that had to do with lying in bed in the late afternoon working through the beads, repeating the prayers of the Rosary over and over again:

The Sign of the Cross
The Apostle's Creed
Three Hail Marys
Glory be to the Father
The First through Fifth Mysteries, each:  1 Our Father, 10 Hail Marys  and 1 Glory be to the Father.

My son's the one who drags us to mass every Sunday.  He never met his Gaeilge speaking ancestors, the remnants of an ancient culture that once encompassed western Europe from Spain to the British Isles and reached as far as Italy and Turkey.  The Emperor Marcus Aurelius died on March 17 at a Celtic village on the Danube that became Vienna.   Maybe many my son takes after his Hispanic-Italian grandmother who goes to mass everyday when she can.

Sometimes we ended up going to the late Spanish mass to meet his devotional demands.  My mother would have invoked Regan's Roman Catholic rules, the Travelers' Dispensation and skipped mass on a Sunday when the boy's baseball tournament ran late.  My son wouldn't hear of it.  Faced with his baseball game on Saturday afternoon and an airplane flight on Sunday morning, we had to find a Saturday Vigil Mass to satisfy his requirements.  The last Vigil Mass in Phoenix was a Spanish mass at Most Holy Trinity Church at 7 pm.  

I was mildly taken aback when the deacon said the "Body of Christ"  to me when I received Holy Communion.  It was a Spanish mass why would I want or need him to speak English.  I grew up with the Latin mass.  A Spanish mass is more comfortable for me than an English one.  I can't stand the insipid folk-rock songs they sing at the English mass.   Regardless of whether someone says "Corpus Christi" or "Cuerpo de Cristo",  I know what it means... but there are few alive today who know that "Comhlacht ar Críost" is a better way to say it.

*  *  *  *  *
Saint Francis Xavier has a 1 pm Spanish mass that is also convenient.  Like when my son's baseball schedule takes up the rest of the weekend.  Its 1 pm mass is the only one I've seen where people move into the central aisle during the "Our Father" so that they can hold hands with people in the adjacent row of pews.

Crash: Welcome to America

Black eye and bloody nose.  That was the welcome for a family from India that moved in down the street from us.   Their boy adapted to playing touch football, but not Little League.  Sometime during 8th grade he made the mistake of sitting at a desk that a Mexican kid had staked out as his territory.  How was an Indian kid supposed to know there were property rights in public schools in America... and consequences if you violated them.  The Mexican kid shows up for class, walks over to the desk, puts his hand on the back of the Indian kid's head, and slams the kid's face into the desk top.   Black eye and bloody nose.

The Indian kid's dad was out of town working on a software project.   His mother didn't speak English, didn't drive, and didn't know what to do besides be frightened and appalled.  My son demanded that I do something to protect his buddy.  Why do kid's always think dad is superman?  At the parent council meeting a day or two later, I confronted the principal.  The staff's first reaction was to say we couldn't disclose anything about a student, then the principal relented, explained that they were aware of the situation and would deal with it.  Eventually, after more transgressions the student was expelled and became someone else's problem.

After 8th grade the Indian family sent their child to a charter high school. 

Sorry, I Don't Speak Japanese

Took my family to the Grand Canyon one summer a couple of years back.  There were lots of tourists, speaking lots of different languages.   The Germans speaking German next to stopped and spotted some prey nearby to flex their language skills.   One of the Germans goes over to a Japanese-looking guy and starts speaking Japanese.   As far as I could tell the German was pretty fluent and clearly pleased with himself.   The Japanese guy looked bewildered.   There was a pause, then the Japanese guy said, "I'm sorry.  I don't understand a word you said.  I don't speak Japanese.   I'm from Hawai'i."

The Divine Comedy

“Midway along the journey of our life
I woke to find myself in a dark wood,
for I had wandered off from the straight path.” 
― Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy

Not long after the Orpheum reopened,  my wife and I went to see a night of comedy performances.   The Orpheum wasn't trying to bring big-name entertainment to Phoenix.  It was giving local talent a chance and giving audiences something different than touring Broadway shows that headlined at the Gammage Auditorium at ASU.   You might even say the Orpheum was giving the old folks performances they could hear.   Between the spectacular sound mixing acoustics Frank Lloyd Wright designed for symphony performances (not Broadway shows) and the bad voices of touring companies,  the voices at Gammage are almost unintelligible. 

That night at the Orpheum the first comedians got a few laughs.   Then it was a local Mexican's turn.   He got about five minutes into his act, which was all "white" people jokes, and wasn't getting any laughs.  Just silence.   You could see the air go out of him as he realized that he was telling nasty "white" people jokes to a room full of "white" people.

Some of the audience may have been thinking is this what the Mexicans think of us?  Is this what the Mexicans think is funny?   I was an old management consultant.  I was thinking: hmmm, the same principles that apply to consulting apply to comedy.   Know your audience.  Never bad mouth the customers or tell a joke at the customers' expense.   They have a sixth sense that picks up on it even when you do it behind their backs.

Delivering bad news is an art.   It takes a great artist to move an audience.   Sometimes it's ritual "suicide" preparing the way for the next act the gods planned all along.   

You People Can Sit with Us Now

He was a good man ... and still is.  I don't know if he's coaching Little League anymore, but he still was at 70.   Getting enough kids to play ball is always a problem when they get older.  Too many other things to do:  TV, girls, video games... smoking funny cigarettes.   Some kids drop out because the competition gets tough and the field gets bigger.   Some can't throw the ball all the way across the big field to first base.   Fewer can throw it 60 feet for a strike.   The ones that can throw strikes throw hard and that intimidates some of the kids... who drop out. 

The local league called my son hoping he'd fill out he roster.   He was a year too old for the Juniors team, but they said he could play as long as he didn't pitch.  He was fine with that.   The Juniors played during the week and his more competitive club team played on the weekends.

Coach Ron, the old timer, was happy to have him.   Show them the how game's played, Jimmy.  There were all shapes, colors and sizes on the team.  Didn't matter to Ron.  They were all just kids to him. 

Ron pretty much said whatever came into his mind.  His team's black parents always sat far down the third baseline by themselves.   One day Ron decided to chat, walks out of the coach's box and over to where the black parents are sitting.  He points at the white parent sitting in the stands near home plate and tells the black parents:  "Hey, you know you people can sit with us now."   The black parents smiled politely.  Then grandma, who was as old as Ron, cracked up and couldn't stop laughing for quite some time.

IN-N-OUT BURGER: Mother's Day

My son is 18 and can now drive himself around.  He is taking his mom to IN-N-BURGER for Mother's Day.

Das Boot

The U-boats were so brazen they'd anchor near Connecticut and Long Island villages and send English-speaking sailors into town to pick up fresh vegetables and milk.

It was a horrific battle few remember today.   My mother helped run it.  She was a watch commander for the communication center responsible for the western end of the U-boat-convoy war in the North Atlantic.  She recalled the bodies of sailors washed up on the beaches after their ships had been sunk just outside Boston and New York harbors.  Sailors whose ships she'd sent messages that ordered them to their doom.  Boston was so edgy that Mother was given a choice when she carried secret messages between buildings:  learn how shoot a .45 pistol and wear it on your rounds, or be escorted by an armed sailor or marine.   She chose the man with a gun.

When the war started my mother was teaching grammar school.  Substitute teaching actually.  When she had work she'd often end the day in tears, frustrated by boys more interested day dreaming about Captain America than long division.  Some would be just old enough or lie about their ages to make it into the fight at Bastogne or Iwo Jima.  Instead of breaking a leg jumping off  a roof like Captain America, they got blown to smithereens trying to avenge Robert Taylor and George Murphy who died defending the bridge on Bataan.

When I worked in Houston over thirty years ago, I went to see Das Boot's premiere.  The movie told the story of the war from the perspective a U-boat captain and his crew.  Its opening caption said 40,000 German sailors went off to the U-boat war and never came back.  You might have thought that would have evoked an appalled sympathy from the audience, or at least silence.   All was not forgotten or forgiven.   The Texans broke out into wild applause.   There are reports that the caption got the same reaction in other American movie theatres.

Long before Pearl Harbor, Roosevelt had done everything he could to keep England from surrendering to the Nazis.  This included giving scores of Navy ships to the British to keep their lifeline to America open.  Hitler wasn't happy about this, but he tolerated it since he wanted to keep the Americans at least tacitly on the sidelines.   After the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, Hitler decided to declare war too and go after the soft defenses of America's East Coast.  They were really soft with all the aircraft and ships turned over to the British.

And so it came to pass that my father's cousin Charlie joined the Navy, was given command of a small, lightly armed patrol boat and told to go patrol the waters of Long Island Sound.  "If you see a U-boat, radio for help and run away as fast as you can.  We'll sent out a bomber or big destroyer, if any are available (which they pretty much weren't, most being sent to save the British)."

Early one morning Charlie and his tiny crew sailed off into the fog of Long Island Sound.  They'd been out for awhile, but not long enough for the sun to warm things up and burn off the fog.  Out of the fog slips a U-boat and it sails right up to the startled Charlie and his tiny crew.  Before they can even raise their hands to surrender, the U-boat pulls alongside and its captain growls:  "Are you regular Navy or reserve."  Charlie hesitates and then says "reserve."  (God, I hope that's the right answer.)  The German captain growls back: "lucky for you."   Then the Germans all start laughing and the U-boat slipped away into the fog and was gone.