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Regular port-swillers may recall that a week or two ago ol’ Robbo decided to play a little game of domestic power politics by neglecting to get his hair cut until Mrs. R told him to.   (Go here for the back story if you need a refresher.)

Well, I should have known better.  Being apprised of what I was up to, Mrs. R firmly refused to unmask her batteries.  As a result, the old thatch has steadily been progressing from Tom Wolfe length and is now reaching the fringe of the Louis Rukeyser zone.  In part because I, personally, can’t stand it any more and in part because I have an interview on Friday for which I need to look reasonably respectable, I wound up crumbling.

So it’s off to the cuttery tonight.  On the one hand, I anticipate with pleasure the sort of reverse-Samson effect such trips always have on me.  On the other, I feel it’s a kind of admission that I fought the law and the law won.

Happy All Saints Day, my fellow port swillers!

As ol’ Robbo has perhaps mentioned here a time or two, All Saints is probably my very favorite day of the year, both liturgically and seasonally speaking.  It’s something about the interwoven themes of triumph and communion, coupled with the usually bracing weather, that produces what might be called a vertical integration of good feeling in ol’ Robbo’s soul.

UPDATE:  Went to noon Mass at St. Patrick’s downtown.  It was packed, standing room only.  Not to go all catacombish, but I was pleased to see this many faithful together under Caesar’s nose.

Oh, and if you want a bit of a laugh, go here and scroll down to have a look at the sanctuary crucifix.  I think the negative imprint on the cross itself and Christ’s leaping out away from it is supposed to represent His triumph over Death, but to me it’s always seemed to suggested more the Acapulco Cliff-diving phase of His ministry.

Greetings, my fellow port-swillers!

Mrs. Robbo and I had a very unusual Halloween this year, insofar as we spent it sans kids for the first time since kids started coming along.  It was…quiet.   Too quiet.

The two younger gels went off to trick-or-treat at friends’ houses, the middle gel returning with a sack of loot that looked bigger than the Grinch’s bag after he got done pillaging Whoville.¹

The eldest gel, who’s really too old for T&T now,  went off with one of her classmates to a Haunted House at a nearby mall.  They came back literally giggling at how frightened they had made themselves.

Good times.

As for us?  Well, Mrs. R spent the evening writing student evaluations and I watched Arrested Development reruns.

Good times.

 

¹ Completely off topic, but the name reminds me of the urban legend that Theodor “Dr. Seuss” Geisel modeled Whoville on Charlottesville, Virginia because he couldn’t get into UVA and wanted to pay back the Wahoos.  How the Grinch Stole Christmas is a bit of literary venom on the subject, as Dr. Seuss apparently bought a house sitting on a hill overlooking town so that he could always “look down” on UVA.  I’ve always felt that this is one of those stories that, even if it isn’t true, ought to be.

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