I still intend to finish writing about the unwild SB 'o8, but I've got a whole bunch of papers to grade. One thing has led to another this afternoon, and I need to get grading, but in my afterinternetnoon journey, I ran across a story from the other side of Lent that I wrote about 3 years ago. I also found something that I wrote last year when I began teaching in SoCal. Here they are, presented without commercial interuption. The short story (maybe the only one I've ever finished) is called "Strange News". The other collection of words is, I think, my first blog ever. I was living in an apartment where I was getting internet access w/o paying for it, and that's what I'm yammering about initially. Enjoy.
Strange News
Upon receiving the call, Cantilever was stunned. This appeared to be the sign that he'd been hoping to see. The day was Ash Wednesday and he was unsure whether or not he should attend the mass that evening. It had been over ten years since he'd attended any mass. In a cautious attempt to see whether any symbols would guide him, he walked out into the world. A stop at the used bookstore, Gabriel's, offered nothing. He continued his stroll around the neighborhood. After buying bread at the grocery store, he stopped at St. Michael's Church. The doors were unlocked and he went in.
The inside of the Church was bigger than the one he'd spent the early Sundays of his life in, though not as awe inspiring. Of course, that could have been the divide in time between the past and the present or the shift in perspective that accompanies aging. He grabbed a little book on the significance of Lent, and after a couple passes around the interior of the building he went home. Trying to read a bit, he realized that he still felt distracted and decided to call his grandmother; she always came to mind whenever he thought of Catholicism. He'd decided that if she mentioned anything about it being Ash Wednesday, then it would be settled, he'd attend the mass. She didn't say anything about it. He thought that she was going to when she mentioned that Grandpa had fasted that morning, but this was due to the possibility that he would have to have a blood test at his monthly check-up. Grandpa did have the test, and the fasting was a good thing. He said goodbye to his grandmother and wished her well until they saw each other again.
Next he called his girlfriend, who was at work. She'd sent him an e-mail earlier in the day discussing the possible plans for that evening. She'd mentioned mass, happy hour at a co-worker's or dinner and said it was his choice. He called and told her about the absence of any obvious sign. They'd spoken of the lack of religion in their lives and he understood that he could discuss this with her. They had a candid conversation, involving an unfinished analogy about the significance of yellow at a traffic light, and decided that they would see each other around five that night and figure out what to do.
Still too distracted to read, he thought of the previous night bartending. It was an awards dinner for the Knights of Columbus and the guest speaker, a Benedictine sister, talked about the shortage of people entering religious vocations, the negative and positive impact of the Vatican II council, and the significance of the change in religious attire for Nuns. The Knights and their guests were all fairly old and the Benedictine sister made the point that, in her experience, many young people, whose parents had moved away from the church during the late 20th century, were reaching out, across the generations to speak with grandparents about the Church. This was exactly the desire and curiosity that Cant had been experiencing for the last five or six years. He went downstairs and took a shower. When he got back upstairs, he noticed that he had a message on his phone. It was from an unlisted number. "Hi, I'm calling from St. Michael's church in Lakeside and I'm reminding you that today is Ash Wednesday and there is a seven o'clock mass, and we would love to see you this afternoon. Thanks and have a great day."
He spent some time considering the implications of this call. Today had been the only time in his life that he'd entered the Church of St. Michael's, and though he'd really wanted to speak to somebody while there, he didn't see anybody and certainly didn't leave a phone number. He understood that this must be the sign that he'd spent that morning looking for. He concluded that all members of the community must have received a similar call. In no way did the fact that this call was random hinder his delight about its appropriateness and timing. He went downstairs and told his sister-in-law about the experience and asked whether she'd received a similar call. She hadn't. He called his girlfriend, excited to tell her about this strange news. She wasn't in, so he left her a message, attempting to explain how strange the afternoon's course of events had been.
His mind was at ease and he began reading his book again, determined to attend the mass that evening at seven. After some time his phone rang. It was his girlfriend. He picked up and asked whether she'd heard his message. She had. She was giggling. He began laughing too. He assumed that the strange power of coincidence was affecting her. He told her how the whole thing was so strange and hard to believe. She made it easy, telling him how it was her co-worker who had left the message.
Ok, and now this is a bit from February '07:
Agghhhh, the stab and slash life of an internet pirate. Some rum times I'm online, and other times I amn't. Blog, blog, blog. As I told my friend Andy, blogging sounds like a German thing to do. So here I am premeditating, processing words and I'm not even connected! I'm anticipating my readers, reaching out through time and eventual fiber-optics to spin you this yarn. . .a blogyarn. Oui. First, let me tell you though, I really wish I didn't have to live this shadow hopping internet life! I wish I had my very own connection to the Amazon and the Google, but alas, I dunnit, and their absence makes me sad; however, I'm not paying for what I do get when it's good, so I guess I'll take the ups with the downs, the silver with the slivers, the wine with the hangovers.
There's this character in my afternoon class and his name is Harry Johnson. I'm not kidding. He's a flippin' hoot. He's a middle aged black guy, and I've nominated him as my all-time substitute if I can't make it to class. He wears overalls, has an endearing lisp and shares a head shaving schedule with me. Twice now, after I fear that the bucket is getting too shaggy, I've shaved, and low and behold, next time I see him, he's done it too! Good ol' Harry, he's the only student with the book so far and he reads it. So today, we basically spent some time talking about Ishmael while the other 27 students listened for words that I say with a Minnesotan accent. So far the funniest thing has been my pronunciation of the word root. I guess I say it more like rut, and the rest of the high-desert says route. I tell them that that sounds Canadian to me and they say that they don't care. So Harry and I talk about the book. After a little while we move on to Grammar. (I said, "over the river and through the woods, to Grammar's house we go", to my morning class and they all agreed it was funny. Even the resuscitation dummy in the back of the room ((for whatever reason this 8am class meets in one of the medical rooms)) appeared to enjoy it. I swear that Bob ((the name given to the dummy)) moved a bit with the mirth of it all, since the pillow that some student mercifully put over his freaky blank face wasn't in place after class. I've never been able to discuss the dummy in the back of the room with the rest of the class before and find the whole subject adventurous.) So my grammar carol didn't work in the afternoon class. I heard some hisses out of Harry, but the rest of the accent academy said it was hokey. I told them that I think the word hokey is cheesy and we all wasted 10 more minutes talking about different words. At one point during our pre-flight check for grammar, we discussed the memory trick of using acronyms to remember somewhat practical things. FANBOYS=(the coordinating conjunctions) for, and, but, or, yet and so. They wanted more of the same but I couldn't think of anything grammatical. I did, however, remember the names of the Great Lakes trick. HOMES! I wrote this on the board and turned around and said, in a ridiculous sounding voice, "hey Holmes". As soon as I said it, I realized where I was, and figured that big, dumb, white, me was going to hear about it. . .but no, everybody laughed and I even learned new phrases that I'll never use until I verify their meaning with a Spanish/English dictionary. After class, one gal lingered and told me that she'd seen the movie Fargo and that I didn't really sound like I was from MN, ever. I said thanks about that and admitted that she didn't sound like she was from high-school, ever. Ok, that's it, I think that I'm back online, and you'll know it if you're reading this. . .
er outside if she has to use the lawn (or the receding ice shelf; what nice weather we've been having). Doesn't she know that the door trick is only to be used when referring to the need to relieve? Well, she doesn't, and I get bugged going outside every 5 minutes. But wait, we could be going outside right now if I'd done more work this morning on my paper. It's nearly 11am and it's 50 degrees outside. Violet's right! We should be out walking. 
er outside if she has to use the lawn (or the receding ice shelf; what nice weather we've been having). Doesn't she know that the door trick is only to be used when referring to the need to relieve? Well, she doesn't, and I get bugged going outside every 5 minutes. But wait, we could be going outside right now if I'd done more work this morning on my paper. It's nearly 11am and it's 50 degrees outside. Violet's right! We should be out walking. 
