Open Letter to Jerry Hairston, jr

Jer,

Sorry it didn't work out here in Chicago. While we don't miss Sammy Sosa, you were still just a throw-in on a bad trade. Your desire to be an everyday player never matched your true ability on the field. I know you didn't want to be a "Major League Utility Guy", but let's face it; it's better than being a "Minor League Utility Guy" which is, in fact, what you are.

Here are some tips that I hope will help you as a Texas Ranger:

1. Learn to hit in situations. Any situation would be fine. As a Cub, I could always count on you to move the runner over on a 6-3 fielder's choice with one out. Sadly, I really needed you to get a base hit so the runner could make it to third base, allowing him to score on a sacrifice fly (or more likely, be stranded as the next two Cub hitters go down on strikes).

2. Learn to field one position. Most Utility Guys can field at least one position REALLY WELL. You are more of a "jack of all trades, master of none" kind of fielder. You sort of play at 2nd base. You sort of play outfield. But you stink at both.

3. Learn to run the bases. Yes, I know, it's hard to run the bases when you get thrown out at first all the time. But in those rare circumstances when you actually reached base, I would win free drinks betting on you to get caught stealing or nailed at third trying to take that extra base. There's a time for speed, and if you ever get any, you'll know what I'm talking about.

4. Drop the jr, Junior. Yes, your father played (20 years ago) in the Majors, but no one confuses you with him. He was a good player. You suck. It's not hard to tell the difference. Also, whenever I hear "Jerry Hairston, Jr" it makes me think of your old man, who (although not a Hall of Famer) could hit for average, run the bases, and play a decent outfield. It depresses me when I hear your name. Think how he feels. Even Ed Begley dropped the "jr" after a while.

Hustle is all some of us have. But we play church softball, not Major League Baseball.

Good luck and continued mediocrity,

Jay Hansen
Waiting for next year since 1981

Too Funny

I don't see a lot of movies, so I probably won't see The Da Vinci Code. I listened to the book on CD and enjoyed it very much.

As a Catholic, I wasn't offended, nor did I feel the need to renounce Catholicism, or doubt that Jesus was anything less than Man/God on Earth. I found it intriguing that Christ (as Man) may have married and procreated. The storyline is nothing new (as Dan Brown knows) and it's a neat discussion to have around the campfire half-gassed on Crown Royal.

I am very amused by all the 'boycott' talk by insecure Catholics and Christians.

I am even more amused by a report today noting that an Albino group is upset about the portrayal of Silas, the albino villain who commits several murders in the book. They say that albinos are caring people who do not participate in self-flagellation or murder.

Once again, lets remember: "This is a novel/movie. It is fiction. It is fiction. It is fiction".

Thank you.

For Mother's Day

My Father was born 1935 on a small dirt farm in northeastern Nebraska. It was not a successful farming operation like the ones his grandfathers had. There’s a story about how destitute the family was one winter when Grandad had to cut down the fence posts from a neighboring farm just to heat the shack. Instead of a well, water was from a cistern, which essentially a pit that collected rainwater. When my Dad was 10, he lifted the lid on the cistern and saw a dead rat floating on the surface. Terrified, he brought the news to Grandad, who said, “don’t worry about it, we’re pumpin’ from the bottom”. My Father recalls dust storms so bad that when you blew your nose, your handkerchief would be filled with mud. He once said if Nebraska had a DCFS back then, they would have taken him away from his parents.

My Dad started his first business at the age of 12. He wholesaled eggs. He would drive a wagon to farms throughout the area, buying eggs and then re-selling them to markets and stores. A few years later, Grandad gave up farming and moved the family to town. Grandma worked at a small grocery store, which she later purchased and ran until she retired. My Dad kept the egg business, and later worked for Grandad, who had started a trucking company. The family prospered, and even bought a TV in the early 50’s. Out in rural Nebraska, I have no idea how much programming was available to them.

At some point, my Father determined that the hard work of farming did not appeal to him. After he graduated from High School in 1952 (in a class of 16 or so), he was drafted into the Army, and spent two years in Germany. When he returned home, he got a job selling shoes in a nearby college town, met my mother (a coed), got married a few years later and managed a shoe department in Lincoln, then moving to St Louis in 1964. We owned a house there at first, then sold it at some point and rented houses. A millinery company hired my Dad in 1966, becoming a district manager. We got transferred a couple of times, living in Ft Wayne Indiana for eight years, Houston Texas for four years, finally moving to the Chicago area in 1981, when my Dad became the president of his company.

My Dad never went to college, and there was never any question that I would go. Actually, all four of his kids were expected to attend and graduate, but I was the only one to follow the program. I did it more for my parents than for me; this fact reflected by my disinterest for the first 3 years of a 4-½ year undergraduate career. It wasn’t until I started doing for myself that I excelled.

My Dad eventually bought his company, which he later sold (but stayed on to operate). When the parent company was eventually sold to Sears, he quit. No sooner did the ink dry on his resignation his health became to falter and he suffered from a brain tumor and then a heart attack within the next 12 months.

All this is background information to make the point that my Dad was a business genius. He was sharp, shrewd, and amazingly intelligent about retailing and merchandising. Had he stayed with Sears, he could have written his own ticket. He chose to walk away, and he and my mom moved back to Ft Wayne in 1989 and he is still in Northern Indiana widowed now these almost 6 years.

In the last 2 years, his health has betrayed him. More shockingly, though, is that his sharp mind is not there. He is in severe financial straits, and only because my beloved (yet ne’er –do-well) brother is living with him, he has a roof over his head.

Now the time has come for him to sell his home and find a new place to live. I had no idea that he was broke until a few months ago, and he refused to let me help him negotiate with his creditors. He had no money for medicine, and is about 4 beats too slow to respond to questions about just about anything.

Last week, he called me in a panic. American Express was threatening to take his home and car if he didn’t pay them $1,000. I may or may not have $1,000 sitting around, but I knew that I wouldn’t see it ever again if I didn’t make another push for him to sell his home and find more affordable housing.

I went to his home and called his creditors, starting with AmEX. It turns out that the call he got was from a collection agency, and it was the initial “send us the entire balance or we’ll have you killed” phone call. I properly reamed the collection guy and laid out the story….give us 4 months to sell the house, and we’ll settle the account. I understand that he was just doing his job, but it was MY Dad he was threatening, dammit.

My “old” Dad, the captain of industry, would have never allowed himself to get in such a situation. But my old Dad is gone. I miss him very much. The Dad I have now is simple-minded and frightened. He has to trust me to get him out of this jam, and I’ll do my best. Despite the fact that I worked my ass off to meet his expectations, I am not the child he goes to first. Rather, he goes to another sibling who instead of meeting the issues head on, just sends money to him, and then calls me and yells at me to fix the problem.

My Dad is listing his home for sale this Wednesday. He’ll sell it, and then he’ll move back to the Chicago area, near the rest of the kids. My brother will be hung out to dry, but he’s 36 and it’s time to grow up. I’m networking trying to find him a job. He has grown up quite a bit in the last 6 months, and I think he’d be a dependable worker. I can only fix one life at a time, I think.

Yesterday was Mother’s Day. My Mom passed away 5 ½ years ago (yes, I could give you an exact number of days, but why bore you?). I do all this for her. She’d expect it, and she’d deserve it.

It depends on how you define 'convicted', I guess

Zack Moussaoui's mother in France was quoted yesterday as saying that she is crying because her son was 'wrongly convicted' in his trial for planning the 9/11 attacks.
Ma'am, he pleaded guilty. He admitted his involvement.

Are you upset that he received life imprisonment? As opposed to the Death Penalty?

Today, she said that he was being "buried alive". Too good for him, actually. Not because he was apart of scheme, but because he's so frickin' obnoxious.

By the way, as much as I am a blood-lusting, revenge-minded Christian, I am pleased he got life imprisonment.

I recently wrote to Artist James that it would have been neat to see him get sentenced to Stateville Prison in Illinois in the general population. Remember Jeffrey Dahmer?

Recently, a white supremacist serving 25 to life in Florence ADMAX (the prison Zack will be doing his time) committed suicide because he was depressed about his 23 hours-a-day incarceration. A 7 x 12 cell is bad enough, but the 12 inch TV would make me go crazy.

Zack, the first bedsheet is on me.

Now, shut your mouth and do your time. I've got 2019 in the death pool. You should live so long.

The Love of a Father

A Father’s Day note from Earl Woods to his son, Eldrick:

"You are my little man. You are my treasure. God gave you to me to nurture and to grow and to develop. I always have had your interests first and foremost in my life, and it always will be. In fact, you mean more to me than life itself. I can remember when I taught you it was OK to cry--that men can cry. It was not a sign of weakness, but a sign of strength. That was part of the education and the legacy that I wanted to leave with you, that sharing and caring for others is a way of life. And it is not taken lightly. I pass on all of my abilities to share and care to you. I realize that you have an infinite, higher capacity and capability to perpetuate this philosophy in our day's world. I trust that I have given you the guidance and love in which you can then execute that mission. What God has in mind for you, I don't know. It is not my call. It was my job to prepare you. I trust that I have done the best job that I can. I know you will give it your all. And that you will be my little man forever."

The letter was read on "Oprah" when Eldrick and Earl Woods were Winfrey's studio guests. And Eldrick “Tiger” Woods wept.

Satire R Us

I know what I do is illegal, but it’s justified by my desire to provide for my family.  It’s not my fault that it illegal.  I didn’t make the laws.

I’ve been breaking the law for years.  Everyone does it.  Why should I be arrested now?  My family will suffer tremendously if I am incarcerated or otherwise forced to leave them.  I’m just doing it to keep them housed, fed, and clothed.

Illegal Shoplifters have rights, too.

Another Fine Job

Rumsfeld is doing a “fine job” directing the war in Iraq.

Just like Brown was doing a “fine job” helping the victims of Hurrican Katrina.

“Fine job” is now my new code phrase for “very poor performance”

“Fine job on that roast tonight, honey”

“Fine job you’re doing raising your child, Mrs. Federline”.

"Don't worry, dad, your did a fine job raising me."

Another fine job on this posting, don't you think?

Memory Triggers

I paid my daily visit to dooce.com and read her story about allowing her dog to enjoy the last few drops of ice cream out of a carton.


My wife and I have owned 2 dogs, the late great Lexie and our current pup, Lacey.  We are the kind of dog owners that don’t allow the dogs to be fed any people food.  This policy pays off by reducing all that begging that goes on when you are trying to eat dinner, or enjoy an evening snack, etc.  I know that other dog owners don’t share our views, and that is okay by me.  It’s your dog.

Lexie pre-dated our children.  She was our first dependent.  She came to us at a crucial point in our marriage, and I think she had a lot to do with our marriage getting through years 3-7.

We spoiled Lexie.  She was a lovely Sheltie, a bit large for the breed, but as high-strung as any other Sheltie.  She would bark at passersby, rotating ceiling fans, reflections on the ceiling, leaves blowing across the patio….  Yet, she was a very smart dog and gave me lots of tips at tax time each year.  Her favorite treat was something called “Frosty Paws”, which was a frozen, non-dairy treat made for dogs.  It came in a little sundae cup, which she would take from my hand and go to her special “treat spot” to enjoy.  We have several photos of her on each birthday, posed with a Frosty Paw with a candle in it.  We’d have some ice cream, and Lexie would have her Frosty Paw.

At some point, Lexie began suffering from various allergy-type symptoms.  She would lick her paws raw.  For a while, we would absorb all sorts of vet bills trying to find out what was wrong with her.  After our daughter was born and we decided to operate on one salary, we had to stop all the diagnostic testing and just try to keep her comfortable.  For a while, I tried shaving her down, thinking that she would be more comfortable with less fur.  It seemed to work for a while.

In the months before our son was born, Lexie was getting worse.  She was licking and gnawing at herself, and her behavior was turning also.  After our son was born, it became apparent that there was no way that we were going to be able to tend to a newborn and a dog who was not going to get better.  A decision was going to have to be made.

I always believed that the only time you should put a dog down was when it was very old, non-ambulatory, and incontinent.  When it hit that trifecta, it was time to go.  Lexie was almost 8 years old, she had another 6-8 years left.  But she was suffering.  Was it thyroid-related?  Our vets could never determine what was causing her “allergies”.

I won’t go into the details of our last trip to the vet.  The very thought of it brings tears, even now.  (Hope no one is walking by my cubicle.)   After reading dooce today, I recall that just before I took Lexie to the vet, I spooned some Breyers ice cream in a small bowl, set it down before here (I’m crying as I type this) and said, “Here’s what you’ve been missing”.

Putting the Indian in Indiana

I was in Second Grade in 1970-1971. It was my third school in three years. We lived in St Louis when I went to Kindergarten, and moved to Ft Wayne in the summer of ’69 (cue Bryan Adams) where we rented a house for a year while I went to first grade. We moved to a different rental house in ’70, which my parents eventually purchased and where we lived until 1977.

I was a very bright kid back in those days, before gifted programs. School was not terribly exciting for me. I knew how to read already, and I could to the basic math (I was not a math savant like my son). I remember telling my first grade teacher (Mrs. MacIntosh, bless her heart) that I just didn’t want to go to school anymore. I remember that during quiet time, I would go to the bookshelf to find the “L”encyclopedia that had the neatest entries about Robert E Lee and Abraham Lincoln. I loved the Civil war as a 7-year old. Man was going to the moon, and that’s what I was going to do on the way to being President of the United States. I loved reading about Presidents.

In second grade my teacher was Mrs. (Ruth) Cochran. I recall that she was 64 and very grandmotherly. As most teachers do, she would read from a book out loud to us almost daily. One of the first books she read was “Little Turtle, Miami Chief.” It didn’t say “Miami Chief” on the cover, so my first impression of the book, before she even opened it, was this was going to be a lame book about some turtle that talks and has adventures with life lessons along the way.

She started reading. The Miami Indians lived throughout the Midwest, including Ohio, Kentucky, and Indiana. One of their principle villages, Kekionga, was near the present site of Fort Wayne. Chief Little Turtle was one of their greatest and wisest War Chiefs. He was great because he killed a lot of his enemies so the Miamis could keep their land. He was wise because he knew that eventually the Indians would be defeated and when he saw that defeat was coming, he tried to convince the other chiefs to negotiate. He was ignored, and shortly later proved right.

He was cool because he adopted a 12-year old white boy, William Wells, who he loved very much but later allowed to re-join the Whites.

After defeat at the Battle of Fallen Timbers, Little Turtle helped to negotiate a treaty between the United States and the Indian nations. It was considered a good deal for the Indians. And we all know what happened to any treaty the favored the Indians.

This book entranced me. I imagined that the Indians must have lived in my very neighborhood. I would convince my pals to explore the woods that were near our homes, looking for artifacts and maybe even an old Indian who didn’t know that civilization had come to his land.

Thankfully, our school library had lots of local history books. I learned about Frances Slocum (who my First Grade school was named after), who was abducted by the Indians as a youth and as an old woman declined to return to her family after they found her. I learned that William Wells, the beloved adopted son of Little Turtle, was killed at the Fort Dearborn Massacre just weeks after Little Turtle passed away. Wells was killed by Indians while trying to escort white settlers out of the fort, and had fought so ferociously that when finally vanquished, the Indians who slew him cut out his heart and gave slices of it to warriors to eat, hoping that his courage, bravery, and skill as a warrior would be transferred to them. I learned this at age 8.

I would find out about many Indian battles. I never thought about who was right and who was wrong. I understood that the Miamis had to kill settlers and soldiers to keep their land. And I understood the Americans sometimes and to kill Indians to get the land they thought they deserved.

Mrs. Cochran was my favorite teacher. No one (until Steven Smith at A&M) turned on the lights for me like she did. This was back in the days when a teacher could take students out for supper, one or two at a time, and get to know them. Mrs. Cochran took me twice, once on a weeknight with another student, and once on a Saturday, just me. She took me to lots of the battle sites around Fort Wayne. She showed me the place where the Maumee River emerges from the St Joe and the St Mary’s, where Little Turtle won a battle in which the bodies of the dead created a bridge across the river. She took me to Little Turtle’s grave. It was right between a couple of houses in an older part of Ft Wayne. This was before “Historic Fort Wayne” was rebuilt in the late 1970’s. This was before Little Turtle’s gravesite was cleaned up and turned into a park area.

To this day I can’t pass an historical marker on the side of the road and not think of her.

A couple of weeks ago, I tried to find a copy of “Little Turtle, Miami Chief” online. It is long out of print. But thanks to the power of the Internet, I found a copy on Amazon and ordered it. It arrived last week, and now I’m reading it to my son. When I told him that I wanted to read a book about Little Turtle, he expressed the same skepticism that I did 36 years ago. What could be interesting about a little turtle? For the last week, he has found out.

Thanks, Ruth. Thanks for turning the lights on for me. The Social Security Death Index tells me you passed away about 10 years ago, but your memory and love of books lives on.

Rusty Remarries!

(AP-Houston) Rusty Yates married Laura Arnold, 41, during a private ceremony Saturday at the church where they met.

The church minister said Yates chose to move on with his life while resisting temptation to pity himself.

Congratulations to the newlyweds. I hope Laura enjoys the isolation and control as much as Andrea did.

Reaching Out...Part 1 1/2

An update.

Nita has removed herself from the WIU Alumni Directory, and is no longer listed in Yahoo! White Pages.

I’m really hoping this isn’t my fault.

It was not a creepy letter.

And no, I’m not stalking her.

Lent me, baby!

I gave up Diet Coke for Lent. Yes, it’s a little extreme. My Diet Coke consumption averaged about 4 gallons a week, or about 42 twelve-ounce cans, or 25 twenty-ounce bottles. My devotion to Diet Coke is famous, almost notorious.

There was no over-arching spiritual reason for giving up Diet Coke. I heard that a relative’s chiropractor suggested that aspartame was contributing to her back pain. Now, everyone has opinions about chiropractors. I happen to believe and respect them a little more than I believe and respect L. Ron Hubbard; which is to say, it’s a nice way to earn a living, but no thank you.

Still, I’ve been suffering from back pain for many years, and lately it is a lot worse. Conventional Medicine (CM) has diagnosed the problem to some extent, but is unable to find a solution to managing the pain. In other words I’ve been told to just “buck up”. The long-term solution to my back pain is to strengthen my abdominal muscles, which involves exercise. My fitness trainer sister says I should “engage my core”. I understand this. I’m not opposed to exercise. I need to make it a priority, and I’m sure to move it up on the list as soon as I stop hurting. In the meantime, if not drinking Diet Coke can help the pain go away, I’m willing to make that sacrifice.

It’s been two weeks, and other than a mild headache after Day 2 (relieved with Equate brand Headache pills -- a wonderful combination of caffeine, aspirin, and acetaminophen) I’ve had no ill effects. My craving for fizzy drinks has been resolved by drinking seltzer water. I bring a half-liter bottle to work, and then re-fill the bottle with bottled water throughout the day. I sleep better at night, and can probably focus a little bit better.

The only downside that I’ve found is that Mount Gay Rum does not taste so good with seltzer water. Their website suggests Tonic Water, but I’m not sure I would like that.

This has revealed something to me: I always thought it would be very difficult for me to quit Diet Coke, and it’s actually been quite easy. However, I always thought it would be easy for me to quit alcohol, and it hasn’t been as simple. If I do drink, it is on a weekend, and I’m don’t get ‘rip-roaring’, but when offered, I can’t say no.

The things we find out about ourselves

My back is still killing me, by the way. Each Friday night, I am in agony. Why it’s on Fridays, I don’t know. I can tell you this, three ibuprofen, three naproxen, three aspirin, and I feel a lot better. I’ll have liver failure, but I won’t be in pain.

Achilles' Heel

Living in the shadows of the things that might have been
Torn between the blessing and the curse
You may stop the hunger but you'll never slake the thirst
For the nectar you remember but you'll never taste again

Dan Fogelberg, from ” The Lion’s Share” on The Innocent Age album.

ADRIAN MISSBRENNER IS AN ASSHOLE!

If you want a piece of me, let me know.

Adrian, or may I call you Asshole for short, perhaps someday you will have a daughter. Then you might understand why everyone (with the exception of your asshole parents and your asshole friends) thinks you are a gaping asshole.

Just so we are clear, Asshole. After all, I wouldn't want you to ever feel victimized because you were charged with rape:

No girl or woman who is so drunk that she is vulnerable to having sex with 4 guys while being videotaped is ever "consenting". You were lucky this time to be found "not guilty". That doesn't make you innocent.

Where is your father? And why hasn't he kicked your ass yet?

Climate Psychology

In early December, when Northern Illini get their first serious snow (or, when we're most likely to get our first serious snow), we are quick to grab our snow shovels or fire up the snow-blowers and clear not only our driveways and sidewalks, but we also go an extra 20 feet or so and clear some of the neighbors sidewalks as well.

In March, when we get snow, our attitude changes. Looking down our street, I see that NONE of the neighbors (including me) has bothered to clear the 2 inches of late winter snow. Heck, it'll get up to 36 degrees today, let it melt!

I have a very long list of things I want to accomplish around the house (exterior projects), but all I can do is pace in front of the windows, because it is just too damn cold!

Ten Years!

As much as I gushed over your brother yesterday, you remain my precious princess. You’ve inherited my smart-ass mouth, and it gets you in trouble with mom on just about a daily basis. On some level, I’m proud of that.

You are a great example to your brother. I give all the credit for his love of learning to you. You, too, love to read, and that is my greatest accomplishment as your father. I don’t know if I could give you a greater gift than the love of reading.

You remind me so much of my younger sister, so tall and lanky, and so beautiful. Your heart and spirit are even more beautiful. You are very thoughtful and concerned about the world around you. So much, in fact, that I find myself being mindful of what you see on the TV news each day. I try to help you make sense of all the bad things that happen, and reinforce the good that we are all capable of. You went with me to serve breakfast to the blind people last month, and I think you learned a lot about how fortunate you are, and how not having sight doesn’t seem to slow down these people. They cope, adjust, and succeed.

You are in a phase where you don’t seem to be interested in Girl Scouts or Cheerleading, or other group things. You want to stay home with Mom. I guess this is your adjustment to her going back to work…she’s home for you, but her focus isn’t completely on you like it used to be.

Now at age 10, you want to be a schoolteacher. I’m behind you completely. You love to learn, and you’ve taught your brother many things, including the “invisible elbow to the head” move that you have perfected. I can’t see it, but I know it happens. You can be very bossy and love to supervise. You will be a good wife to some lucky man some day (hopefully, after you are 40 years old, if I have anything to say about it!).

I am thankful that we have such a great relationship. I know that 5 years from now, you’ll hate my guts, but that will be temporary.

I still marvel how such a wonderful person could be the product of our love. I learn something from you every day, and look forward to tomorrow.

Connor-Bonnor Now 6!

Well, now you are six years old! You are, without question, the smartest six-year old boy I know. Your mind is screamingly fast. You have a deep sense of humor, if only to please your father. You devour Captain Underpants books, you even got the Big Melvin BM joke. You are awesome.

You are a thoughtful boy, too. You emptied your piggy bank to help Katrina victims. Although you like to tease, you get a little sensitive when someone returns the favor. You listen to what others say to you, and are concerned about how people think about you.

You don’t know this yet, but you are probably going to skip First Grade. It offers nothing for you. You won’t learn anything in First Grade. You already can do the math, you can already read, you write complete, complex sentences about both silly and serious things. You will miss your pals, but you will make new ones. I want you to do this, I need you to do this, because if you don’t, you will learn to hate school, you’ll be bored by school. I know what this is like. I know it will be a difficult transition, but I’ll support you.

Every night we read books that you bring home from school. I am thrilled that you are interested in so many things. We gave you the “Big Book of How and Why” for Valentine’s Day, and it is your Bible. You learned right away to look in the index for topics, and now you ask me for topics to look up. When was the first Comic Book published, anyway? You won’t leave the house without this book. I am so happy for you.

You are adjusting to Mom working. You get along with your older sister much better than I got along with mine.

A large part of you is just six years old. But in many ways, you are so much older.

You are a great son, and I am a truly fortunate father.

Yates Redux

I will have a lot to say about Andrea Yates as she is being re-tried for the deaths of her children.

Let me fire across the bow by asking if it is possible for Rusty Yates to be busted, cuffed, and called Shirley and tried as a co-defendant.

If anyone needs to do jail time for the deaths of those children, it's Rusty Yates.

That's RUSTY YATES.

Yates with a "Y".

Andrea needs help. Rusty needs a kick to the crotch.

I'll pay my own way to Houston to administer said kick.

Finally, a Regular Gig

One of the “reforms” our new priest has instituted is improving the liturgical music for Mass.  To that end, he has hired a Music Director, Paul by name, who has a Master’s Degree in Vocal Performance and whose “real job” is music teacher at a Catholic School.  Paul knows his liturgy, and for the first time in a real long time, our parish utilizes seasonal Mass Parts with regard to music.

In many parishes, Mass Parts such as the Kyrie, Gloria (G-L-O-R-I-A), Sanctus, and the Amen are either spoken or sung to the same melody week after week.  I think the reason for this is because it’s just easier to use the same melody instead of taking a few minutes for the parish to learn a different melody every 12 weeks or so. Our new practice of paying heed to the changes in the Mass Parts makes for a richer, more meaningful Mass; and the it the whole point of attending, right?

Being a former professional-musician wannabe myself, I would look over to the choir section of our church longingly, wondering if there was any place for my formerly-somewhat-formidable skills.  I felt some resistance from my wife, who would prefer that we all sit together in Mass as a family (and this is a valid point).  I kept my ambitions and desires in check, because, after all, I am Catholic.

In the course of practicing and practicing (or, as we former professional-musician wannabes call it, “rehearsing”) for a CD I am working on, I have all of my instruments on display in our office/den located off the living room.  On one of his “priestly visits” to watch a football game this fall, Father Tim noticed the three guitars, violin case, Honolulu Guitar Harp, etc and asked me why I wasn’t in the choir.  I deflected and parried, and pretty much just said that I wasn’t ready to do that just yet.

Last week, Paul, the Music Director, cornered my wife and told her that he heard that I played guitar, and really wanted to add a guitar to the 10:30 Mass.  Jill made some sort of excuse about me thinking that I wasn’t good enough to play (we will seek marriage counseling because of this comment – I may or may not be good enough to play, but I would never THINK I wasn’t good enough), but said if I were interested, I would talk to him.

So the following Sunday, Paul waved me over to confirm that I played guitar.  We had a five-minute discussion about my ability, and we both believed I could handle the music.  I gave him a brief verbal resume, (violin at 10, switched to tuba at 14 when we moved to a school district that did not have strings-thanks, Dad - guitar from 14-26 to either cope with adolescent loneliness or avoid college studying- sporadic playing since then, etc).  Paul is a great vocal teacher, and he says he can allay any concerns I have about my singing with some training and practice (rehearsal).

I attended my first choir practice (rehearsal) last night and was very happy.  I’ll practice (rehearse) my ass off for the next 3 days to get caught up, but come Sunday morning, I’ll play in front of a real live audience for the first time in 20 years.  For the longest time, I’ve been searching for an outlet, and now I’m getting plugged in!

Where Do I Start the Riot?

Mock my God, will you?