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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Have I mentioned before how much I dislike Tuesdays? I have? Well, let me just top up that cup o’ gripe for you.
I couldn’t help noticing that Pravda on the Potomac, apparently with nothing better to occupy itself, decided to run a front page, over-the-fold sympathy article on a transgendered five year old this past Sunday. I’ve nothing much to say about this biznay (well, nothing much printable at any rate) except this: Always remember that “sex” is a matter of biology, while “gender” is a creature of politics. That’s pretty much all you need to know to navigate these things.
And, as Peej O’Rourke famously noted, politics is the business of gaining power and status without merit.
Why do they call it a “Fun Fair”? I never have any fun, and I think it unfair that I have to go. (I repeat this observation here because my doc laughed when I mentioned it to her yesterday. It’s gold, Jerry! Gold!)
The Mothe recently alerted me to the fact that Jeep is recalling some of its 2010 Wranglers because of the risk of fire caused by some flaw in the automatic transmission system. This caused me to fetch the soft cushions and the comfy chair: The very notion of a Wrangler with automatic transmission is downright heretical, IMHO. I mean, half the fun of driving one is the stick-shift, right? Confess! CONFESS!!
I completely agree with Mr. FLG’s latest pet peeve.
Henry Rodriguez causes a cold, cold feeling in the pit of my stomach every time he comes in to close a game for my beloved Nats. Help me, Drew Storen! You’re my only hope!
I saw a soon-to-be middle aged woman with the words “Live, Laugh, Love” tattooed prominently across her back. Why? Why on earth?
On a brighter note, I pick up the new glasses this evening. Perhaps this will put me in a less churlish frame of mind. Perhaps not.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo collected his first official sunburn of the season this gergous day. (Robbo’s doctor has been fussing at him recently about Vitamin D deficiency. A few more outings per month like today’s and that problem ought to rectify itself.)
First, he spent the morning bench coaching the younger Misses Port Swillers’ softball team to a 12-7 victory. (They now stand at 8-1 on the season). Among other things, he was delighted to discover that the youngest gel has the apparent super power ability to become two-dimensional at will, this being the only explanation of how she managed to slide under a tag at home plate. I’d swear when she pancaked, she went absolutely flat.
Next, he spent the afternoon puttering about in the yard, mowing, trimming, weeding and (just to mix things up a bit), giving the front door portico its yearly scrubbing.
We are paying the wages for our sinful slothiness in not having got round to cleaning out the gutters last fall, insofar as one of the ones on the front of the port swiller mansion, chock full of dead leaves, mulch and new maple saplings, recently wrenched itself away from the fascia board and started bowing out ominously. Yesterday, we finally got them cleaned. Today, we had a local handyman out to re-attach the bowmeister. As I stood about jawing with him, I discovered that he is a licensed bow-hunter and helps the county with keeping the local deer population within something approaching reasonable limits. When I mentioned that I used to hunt deer myself in my misspent yoot and that venison sausage was amongst my very favorite foods, he replied that he makes his own (among other products) all the time and would I like to have some of it?
This looks like the beginning of a bee-u-tiful friendship.
So now it’s just a matter of waiting for five o’clock to roll around. As a treat for a productive day’s work, I hied me to the butcher’s counter at the local Gourmet Giant (pronounced “GER-may GEEE-aunt”) and nabbed one of their extra thick ribeyes. Yum. After dins, it’ll probably be Buckaroo Banzai. The Nats are playing tonight, but I feel I need a break from watching them strand so many base-runners. Not good for ol’ Robbo’s ulcer.
Eldest Gel: What’s the Nats’ record now, Dad?
Self: Well, with last night’s win, we’re, lessee, 20 and 12.
E.G.: Wow, we’re doing really well this year, aren’t we.
Self (knocking on kitchen table): Yes. So far, at any rate.
E.G.: Uh, what are you doing?
Self: Touching wood.
E.G.: Why?
Self: So as to ward off the Baseball Gods. They don’t like anything that resembles boasting.
E.G.: There are no baseball gods!
Self: Oh, yes there are. We must be prudent.
E.G.: Dad! You’re the most religious person in the house! “Thou shalt have no other god but me.” How can you believe in God and the “baseball gods” at the same time?
Self: I can’t explain it theologically. I just know what I know.
E.G.: I’m telling Father S about you!
Self: I’m sure he’d back me up.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Nothing of sufficient gravitational weight in ol’ Robbo’s brain this morning to cause a coalescing of post-length thoughts. (I’m not even going to bother addressing the whole “evolution” meme splashing around the headlines today. Regular friends of the decanter will know already what I think about that unfortunate biznay. However, I will just point out that the Golden Rule does not mean “Whatever turns you on.”) So instead, a few smaller items:
♦ No movement on the glasses front, yet, as it’s almost impossible during the week for Mrs. R and Self to actually get enough time alone together to go frame-shopping. I continue to feel a certain oddly comfortable relief in the knowledge that all the symptoms I’ve been suffering of late – dizziness, light-headedness, headaches – come not from some lurking cancer, alcohol poisoning or other sinister sources, but from good, old-fashioned eye-strain.
♦ My second prescription, the one specifically for working at my computer, came over from the doc yesterday. He said, “Now, you may have trouble getting this filled at Hour Eyes because they’ll tell you it just can’t be done. However, I happen to be able to do it in my own shop and I can give you a good deal……” Did I say ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching the other day? Add a couple more.
♦ They sure play Etienne-Nicolas Mehul’s “Young Henry’s Hunt” Overture an awful lot on the local classickal station. I suppose the theory is that anything with horns is a natural crowd-pleaser.
♦ The organist at RFEC is after me again, this time tempting me to help the choir sing the Mozart Coronation Mass. I’ve wrestled with the idea and finally come to the firm conclusion that I’m perfectly comfortable tagging along to services as my family’s “guest” but that I cannot, in good faith, do anything that might be construed as aiding and abetting the service itself, even if it is something as heavenly as singing Mozart. I’m pretty sure the organist does not know of my RC conversion, and perhaps it’s time to e’splain it to him.
♦ Planning ahead for a family movie night this weekend, I decided it’s time to expose the gels to that great classick, The Blues Brothers. Said the middle gel when I explained it to her, “1980?? Is it in color?” Whippersnapper.
♦ I’m off on another biznay trip the first part of next week. The first leg of my travel takes me down to Atlanta. The past couple trips I’ve been on, I’ve been forced to fly exclusively in those dinky little regional jets. This time around, the flights between DeeCee and Atlanta will actually be on large liners – an Airbus A-320 in one direction and a Boeing 757 in the other, to be exact. I’ve been so cooped up in the sardine tins of late that I actually find myself looking forward to these flights. I’m never, ever going to enjoy air travel, but I seem to have managed to get my fears under reasonable control.
♦ How do I know that I’ve reached True Fan Status with my beloved Nats? By the fact that they’ve dropped three straight this week and that each said loss has put me in a thoroughly grumpy mood as I’ve gone to bed.
Who knew that there was a soccer cup for pontifical seminaries and universities? And who knew that the U.S. team is in the hunt to win it this year?
Rome’s Pontifical North American College is only two wins away from capturing the clerical equivalent of soccer’s World Cup for the first time ever.
“There is nothing better than a bunch of guys getting together, trying to be better at something and, I think, the soccer field is a great outlet for that,” said seminarian and striker John Gibson.
The player made his remarks to CNA following his side’s 4-2 victory over the Pontifical Urbanianum University in the quarter-finals of the Clericus Cup, Saturday April 21. The semi-finals now take place this Saturday April 28.
Now into its sixth year, the Clericus Cup in an annual soccer tournament for the pontifical seminaries and universities in Rome. Matches take place on the Knights of Columbus playing fields behind the Vatican and in the shadow of the dome of St. Peters basilica.
But that’s not all – the U.S. team goes by a name that sets every historickal geekery synapse in ol’ Robbo’s brain a’flickering:
The United States team goes by the name of the North American Martyrs and – patriotically – the uniform is red, white and blue. Despite two runner-up positions in previous years, the Martyrs have yet to lift the Clericus Cup.
I confess that I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in soccer in any of its manifestations. But I’m glad to know about this. Go Martyrs!
A glass of wine with the Headline Bistro.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo spent his Saturday morning out working in the yard and is now sitting down to a tall, cold glass of iced coffee (aka the Sweet, Blesséd Nectar of the Gods), smug and complacent in the knowledge that he got all of the mowing, weed-whacking, raking and blowing over and done before the rains come in later today and tomorrow. There’s still some weeding to be done, but we’ve been suffering a bit of a drought ’round here and the ground is getting rayther hard, so I feel it’s best to blow off put on hold the weeding until after the skies let loose. At least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
The port swiller yard has, I’m afraid, deteriorated a great deal over the course of the years, now consisting more of weeds – clover, dandelion, that little low-growing, round-leafed, blue-flowered thing - than of grass. However, I have become quite comfortable with this: So long as the stuff is green and can be cut neat and trim, I no longer really give much of a damn what it’s composition may be.
Whilst laboring in teh vinyard, so to speak, I heard my first catbird of the season. As much as I like catbirds (and they are among my favorites), I can never compute how the expression “sitting in the catbird seat” can possibly mean the same thing as sitting pretty or being on top of things. To me, catbirds sound fussy and neurotic, and always seem to be working themselves up into some kind of tizzy. “Eeeeeh! EEEEEEeeeeh! EEEEEEEEEeeeh!!” they say. After a while, I find myself answering. What? What do you want? What can I do? I can only think that the expression “sitting in the catbird seat” is a bit of mellifluous nonsense and was never meant to be any kind of observation on the bird’s apparent character.
Now, had it been mockies, then it would make sense. But I suppose “sitting in the mockingbird seat” just doesn’t have the same ring to it.
Speaking of sitting in catbird seats, how does the paterfamilias properly reply to the eldest gel’s, “Dad! Can I take my friends to see the Nats game this afternoon? Pleeeease!!”? Like this: “While I’m out working in the yard, I want this house cleaned top to bottom, or not a smell of the game do you get, even if it means calling your friends at the last second to tell them your dad banned you.” That’s how. And it works. Leverage. It’s all about leverage.
So Mrs. R and teh gels, together with their friends, are off to Nat’nals Park even as I blog. I’ve got a few more jobs to take care of and decided to stay behind, but will probably flip the game on teevee myself later.
Speaking of ballgames, may I just note here that the younger gels’ softball team has roared out to a commanding 4-0 record to start their spring season? Last evening, the middle gel got two doubles, a walk and 4 ribbies. And these weren’t your little league Keystone Kops defense doubles either, but a pair of ropes that she positively crushed to deep center. Then she ended the game by deftly one-handing an awkward grounder to short and gunning down the runner at first. Proud? Moi?
Well, I suppose I had ought to go and finish up my chores so that I can spend the shank of the afternoon loafing in good conscience. And I do need a bit of R&R. Although I normally don’t post much about politics these days out of prudence, I must say that my nasal passages have been rubbed absolutely raw by the volume of beverages – hot and cold – I’ve been snarfing up over all those Dog Wars photoshops that have been appearing around the intertoobs. Hi. Larious.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Robbo’s beloved Nationals are off to an 8-3 start this young season and, as far as I’m concerned, all is pretty well with the world.
Last evening’s 6-3 defeat of the Astros featured a play involving the amazing arm of Nats centerfielder Rick Ankiel. Check it out. Ankiel’s cannon has become one of the delights of die-hard fans and even when there’s no actual play at the plate, as was the case here, it’s a thing of beauty to behold.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo doesn’t mean to indulge in wanton self-pity, but really, this continues to be an absolutely miserable allergy season. The combination of symptoms makes me simply want to crawl back into bed and stay there until, oh, June or so.
It also knocks about twenty points off of Robbo’s cognitive skills, reducing him to gratuitous random posting instead of developing something longer and more in-depth. So here we go:
♦ Today is the home opener for Robbo’s beloved Nationals. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that baseball is once again in full swing. However, I was rayther startled to discover that over the off-season, MASN let go the lovely and talented Debbi Taylor, who has for some time served as their dugout reporter, replacing her with some, ah, young person named Kristina Akra. I can’t say that I’m pleased with this move. Change is bad, m’kay? (UPDATE: The Nats hold on to win a nail-biter in 10. And Life is Good.)
♦ Today is also the opener for the younger gels’ softball season. At practice the other evening, a ball caromed off the youngest gel’s glove and hit her in the forehead, raising a considerable lump over her eyebrow. Debate has raged in the port swiller household since then over whether the lump was the size of a marble, a golf ball or a grapefruit, provoking testy questions from Dad such as, “Haven’t you people got anything better to squabble about?”
♦ The past few nights I have awakened to the sound of an owl hooting in the woods. (I have a dim memory that I’ve posted on this phenomenon before, perhaps at about this same time of year.) Anyhoo, it’s a delightful sound – unless, of course, you happen to be a field mouse. Do different types of owl have different calls? This one goes, “Whoo-huh-whoo-huh-WHOOOO!”
♦ Speaking of nights, I had a dream some time during Lent that I rescued a Jesuit missionary from a lynch mob on the National Mall. I have no earthly idea what this was supposed to mean.
♦ Speaking of Lent, now that it is over, ol’ Robbo has got back to his regular reading schedule. As has been the case for some years past, the very first author I have revisited is Evelyn Waugh. It is my resolution this year to read and reread all of his works, finally getting around to Helena and also going back to Brideshead even though I don’t especially like it. This may surprise (and outrage?) some of you friends of the decanter, but the fact of the matter is that I find it too syrupy and earnest, too melodramatic. I much prefer Sword of Honour as his greatest literary achievement.
♦ A conversation:
Eldest Gel: Hey, Dad, why don’t you mow the lawn?
Self: Why don’t you mow the lawn?
E.G.: Okay!
We’ll see how long that lasts.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers, and Happy Easter! Christ is risen, indeed!
Ol’ Robbo had himself a most delightful Easter weekend this year, despite not being able to get together with any of the extended port-swiller family for various reasons of logistical complication.
First, as I have found to often be the case, my earlier Holy Week blahs disappeared as I worked my way through the Triduum, culminating in Saturday evening’s Easter Vigil Mass. This one marked the fourth anniversary of ol’ Robbo’s swim across the Tiber, and I always celebrate the occasion by paying particular attention to each year’s batch of new adult confirmands. This year there were nine of them, which seems to be about par for my parish. One, to my intense amusement, selected as his confirmation name John Henry Newman. I did not know that Blesseds could be employed as patrons, but evidently they can be.
Second, the middle gel wheedled her way into being allowed to sing with the adult choir at RFEC, so ol’ Robbo dutifully toddled round to listen. They did a couple of Handel anthems, together with the “Hallelujah” Chorus, of course. (Today, btw, she’s off to sing her first Evensong as a member of teh Washington Cathedral Choristers. UPDATE: I learn that the novices do not yet actually perform, but at this point only rehearse. There is some kind of formal induction ceremony in early June, so perhaps that is when they make their first publick appearance.) We also got “Welcome, Happy Morning”, the tune of which was penned by Sir Arthur Sullivan. It’s always been one of ol’ Robbo’s very favorites, and is especially fun when, as it was here, it is accompanied by trumpet and drum. (Almost enough to make Robbo overlook the rector’s “kiddy sermon” in which he gathered the younglings at the altar and talked about how nice this Jesus guy was. On Easter Morning, the only day half of the people there even bother with church. If that sort of thing was all I was ever exposed to, I wouldn’t bother either.) Also almost enough to make Robbo overlook the clergy’s increasing practice of deleting male pronouns from the liturgy, instead of saying “Him” or “His”, saying “God” or “God’s”. They think I don’t notice, but I do.)
Third, if you’ll pardon a little self-congratulation, ol’ Robbo ab-so-positive-lutely nailed the lamb retsina recipe he was on about last week. Cooking it was great fun. Eating it, along with tabbouleh, a “Greek” salad (which really just meant adding Feta cheese to my usual greens with lemon juice and olive oil) and some pita, was even better. (And this wasn’t just my opinion or the family’s diplomacy: At the last minute, it turned out that some friends of ours had no particular plans for Easter dins, so we invited them over. Thus, I was cooking for nine instead of five. I am happy to report that there were no leftovers.)
These friends are members of RFEC and, perhaps not unnaturally, the subject of religion came up at dinner. The female half is, apparently, a Catholic by birth and has been chewing on the idea of returning to HMC recently, bringing her kids with her. The male half is, frankly, one of those Christianity-and-water types described by C.S. Lewis. (And given the diet he gets at RFEC, I can’t say that this especially surprises me.) At one point in the evening, he pronounced weightily that the Problem With Catholicism is that it’s all built around guilt. (He also said that priestly celibacy is only a relic of the Medieval Church’s efforts to corner treasure and real estate through inheritances, and that this is true because it was told him by an old priest.)
People who know Robbo outside the blogsphere will know that he is, as a rule, a rayther reserved fellah. Quiet. Keeps to himself. However, I must admit that I had drink taken last evening, so when my friend started up, I’m afraid I rayther lit into him. Nothing nasty or hostile, you understand, but more of a high-spirited (so to speak) rally. I don’t recall exactly what I said, but I do know that at one point I was thumping the table rayther a bit.
Good times. Good times.
So now we go forward. This morning ol’ Robbo finally got round to cleaning out the garage, which he hadn’t done in about two years. Then he did the taxes this afternoon. (A glass of wine with regular friend of the decanter Gripping Hand for putting me on to Freetaxusa.com – I have to admit that it made things a whoooooole lot easier.) This evening, now that Lent is over, he intends to settle down with whichever of the gels is interested and watch his beloved Nats try to stick it to the Mets.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo doesn’t find himself particularly inspired, blogging-wise, today. Perhaps it’s the pollen ramping up again, perhaps it’s the tummy thing. Whichever way, I can’t bring myself to anything more than a few bits of random at the moment.
♦ One of my first acts upon establishing myself as Emperor of the World will be to make “walk the walk and talk the talk,” or any variant thereof, a flogging offense. Ditto for expressions such as “drill down” or “unpack” when used in anything other than the relevant petroleum industry or shipping context.
♦ Speaking of which, I used to know a woman from Iowa who pronounced industry “in-dus-stry.” Is this a particularly Midwestern thing?
♦ You know the state motto of Iowa? Gateway to Nebraska.
♦ No, I’m not picking on the Midwest. (I’ve been to Des Moines a couple times and rayther like it.) And in the spirit of balance, I will note that my favorite state “motto” remains that of Connecticut, told me by my former co-blogger Steve-O many years ago: Left lane closed next thirty miles.
♦ And let us not forget that the favorite Mainer term for certain neighbors to the south is “Massholes.”
♦ Speaking of travel, I can almost, almost I say, understand the reasoning behind clothing large groups of seedy high school kids in identical, brightly colored tee-shirts and hats when they come a’touroning here. But when it’s just five or six middle-aged adults doing it? No justification whatever.
♦ On a more positive note, I can’t recall Metro putting cherry blossom stickers all over the turnstiles during the season before, but I must admit that I rayther like the effect.
♦ Something I was reading the other day made passing reference to Evelyn Waugh’s novel The Loved One. This immediately put me in mind of the character Mr. Joyboy, which name always makes me start snerking.
♦ My beloved Nationals have rolled out a new theme for this season, “Ignite Your Natitude.” See what you think of it:
I dunno. The team is definitely hungry, and expectations are running higher than they ever have. (Wildcard dreams are not a’tall out of the question.) But this, to me, seems perilously close to the kind of cockiness that might awake the wrath of the Baseball Gods. I remember the fate of oarsmen back in college who gave themselves Mohawks before big races and then got waked by their opponents. It isn’t a pretty thing.
So that’s that. Ol’ Robbo will be hitting the road against next week on biznay, but I will probably posty a bit more between now and then.
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