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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo has never been much of one for what one might call signs or omens, but nonetheless, in recent years I have developed a delight in, well, paying more attention to themes and patterns of what wanders across my line of sight and acting accordingly.

To wit, last evening I was mulling over my Lenten reading and feeling, frankly, a certain dissatisfaction with where I have gone with it so far.  I mentioned yesterday the idea of reading for reinforcement, but was beginning to be troubled at the idea that I seem to be using the same stones over and over again.

And damme if this morning by a coincidence I didn’t happen to read a short piece by C.S. Lewis in which he noted a) that sometimes the best works to encourage devotion are actually works about doctrine and b) that it’s a shame modern readers are so often afraid to go back to original source material.  Lewis was making these remarks in the introduction to a 1944 translation of St. Athanasius’ On the Incarnation.

Well, I can take a hint as well as the next fellah, so I immediately scurried over to the devil’s website and purchased a copy.

I’ve certainly never read any of Athanasius’ writings, but I’ve known him for some time as the great 4th Century champion of orthodoxy from Alexandria, tirelessly warring against the Arian Heresy and repeatedly getting himself exiled by irritated Roman Emperors.  It occurs to me that his Incarnation, which focuses on the identity of Christ, very nicely dovetails with the other books I’ve been reading which refute what Lewis calls the Christianity-and-water view that Jesus was just some nice, smart, cuddly guy.

I look forward to meeting him.

 

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Friends of the carafe, oh, hell, I’ve chucked the Lenten wine embargo.  Can’t sleep, y’know.   But I am very strict with my modified rule that I may not have wine with din-dins unless I first get on the elliptical.  And a good thing, too.  Unlike Mr. FLG, I am trying to bulk up rayther than slim down. (I’m just shy of 5’11” and currently clock in at 150 lb. – which was okay when I was a varsity lightweight oarsman back in the day and all muscle, but is a bit underish now, especially given my tummy bulge.)  From what I’ve observed the past week or two, I think I’m on to something, as I’ve started to creep back toward a more proper bulk and am getting more toned. (Aaaand I am also envisioning a grand plan for my evening routine once my beloved Nats start their regular season – watch the first couple innings whilst ellipticaling, shower break for one or two in the middle, come back for closing while eating well-earned dins……Sounds like a pretty good plan.  Mens sana in corpore sano trans novem, er,  innings.)

At any rate, what I originally meant to post about was the fact that I recently noticed some unlooked-for water on teh floor in the port-swiller bathroom.  At first I thought it was a function of unauthorized personnel (i.e, the gels) using my shower without properly closing the curtain, but I eventually dismissed that theory as inconsistent with the data.  The aqua was there even when the gels were not.

My second theory was that, once again, something had gone wrong with the pipes.  Regular friends of the decanter will recall that this is a seemingly perennial  occurence at the port-swiller residence, and will not be surprised that the last such manifestation  of this curse  is still so fresh that we’ve not yet got round to patching up the kitchen ceiling in the spot where said penultimate leak burst through.

Sigh…

This time, however, upon poking around I discovered that the source of the leak was not some pipe buried deep within the infrastructure, but instead was to be found in the port-swiller potty itself.  In short, the rubber washer surrounding one of the bolts connecting the tank to the base had rotted out, thus allowing water to leach through.  I quickly cut off the water supply to said potty and tossed about some towels to sop up the mess.

Perhaps because I am the veteran of so many more serious crises, perhaps simply because I’m a loony, I found myself laughing at my own potty:  “Is that all you got? Bring it on, your ceramicness!”

In discussing the matter with Mrs. R, somehow the biznay morphed from a simple buck nienty-eight trip to the hardware store for a new washer into a grandiose plan for redoing what I hesitantly call the Port-Swiller Master Bath.  I don’t know where that will go,  but at least I can take solace in teh fact that, regardless of the war,  I won the battle.

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