February 24: Bugblatter Beast of Traal, Blizzard Warning, Oscar Night

Arthur is learning about The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy:

"I'll show you how it works," said Ford.  He snatched it from Arthur, who was still holding it as if it were a two-week dead lark, and pulled it out of the cover.

"You press this button here, you see, and the screen lights up, giving you the index."

A screen, about three inches by four, lit up and characters began to flicker across the surface.

"You want to know about Vogons, so I entered that name so."  His fingers tapped some more keys.  "And there we are."  

The words Vogon Constructor Fleets flared in green across the screen.

Ford pressed a large red button at the bottom of the screen and words began to undulate across it.  At the same time, the book began to speak the entry as well in a still, quiet, measured voice.  This is what the book said:

"Vogon Constructor Fleets.  Here is what to do if you want to get a lift from a Vogon:  forget it.  They are one of the most unpleasant races in the Galaxy--not actually evil, but bad-tempered, bureaucratic, officious and callous.  They wouldn't even lift a finger to save their own grandmothers from the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal without orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public inquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled for firelighters.

"The best way to get a drink out of a Vogon is to stick your finger down his throat, and the best way to irritate him is to feed his grandmother to the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal.

"On no account allow a Vogon to read poetry at you."

Arthur blinked at it.

I must say that The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy sounds a lot like an iPhone, with Siri reading an entry on Vogons.  It has been kind of a crazy day.  Got up this morning to try to get my car shoveled out to go to church.  Didn't happen.  Too much snow, and the plows had come through.  There was a concrete wall of white blocking the entire street line of my property.  I spent 40 minutes digging, pushing, and digging some more.  Then I came back inside, checked my iPhone, and found out that the church services had been canceled for the day.

Not only that, but the Winter Storm Warning had also been canceled for my little corner of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, only to be replaced by a Blizzard Warning that is in effect until 1 a.m. tomorrow.

My son is doing a no-school dance.  My daughter and her boyfriend have been firmly ensconced upstairs in my daughter's bedroom all day, watching Netflix.  And I am sitting in my kitchen, listening to the wind rattle my windows and drive clouds of white powder into my backyard.

Earlier, my plow guy came through.  He dug us out.  I got my car stuck down the street.  (I was attempting to reach my mother's house to see if everybody was alright.  Didn't make it.)  With the help of my daughter, her boyfriend, my plow guy, and a helpful neighbor, I was able to push my way back up the street to my driveway.  Since that time, I haven't stepped foot outside.

UPDATE:  My kids just found out that school is canceled for tomorrow.,

Tonight, I will be watching the Academy Awards as my house gets buried in drifts of snow.  I'm supposed to work tomorrow.  I'm supposed to teach tomorrow.  (The university will not make an announcement about cancellation until the wee morning hours.)  Usually, on Oscar night, I get together with my family, eat snacks, order pizza, and have a little competition.  It's like New Year's Eve but without the horns and balloons.  That won't be happening this year.

Currently, I'm wondering what we're going to eat for dinner.  Old Father Hubbard's cupboard is pretty bare.  I have blueberries that I picked this summer.  There's eggs and milk.  Tonight's menu might consist of blueberry pancakes and omelets.

I hope all of my disciples are safe and warm tonight.  Stay off the roads.  Drink hot cocoa.  Watch a bunch of shallow people in Hollywood congratulate themselves on how wonderful they are.

That's what Saint Marty is going to do.

February 26: Oscar Night, Classic Saint Marty, "Easter Bread"

I have been going a little crazy today.  Church this morning.  An interview this afternoon about being Poet Laureate.  Then jump starting a car, fixing a flat tire, writing for a Lenten devotional.  It is now 8 p.m., and the Oscar broadcast is just getting started. 

I am tired.  Don't know if I'm going to be able to make it to the end of the Academy Awards this year.  It's going to be a very long evening.

Saint Marty give thanks tonight for Wheat Thins and Easy Cheese.

February 24, 2013:  Oscar Night, Party

Yes, tonight Hollywood celebrates itself in the year's biggest pageant of cinematic self-absorption.  The dresses, the tuxedos, the jewelry, the hairdos.  The limos and red carpet.  And, of course, the burning question on everyone's mind:  "Who are you wearing?"

I recognize the supreme shallowness of the Oscars.  I know that, really, who wins Best Supporting Actor or Best Actress isn't going to bring about peace in the Middle East.  I also know that, tomorrow morning, when the Oscar parties on the West Coast are winding down and all the stars are stumbling back to their hotel rooms, my life will be the same.  Same job.  Same money problems.  Same worries.

Yet, for one night, I can be selfish and catty and vapid.  I can imagine my life revolves around whether Lincoln or Argo wins Best Picture.  I will be at an Oscar party.  There will be cheese and crackers and rotelle dip.  I will compete against my siblings and parents and children and in-laws for the honor of taking home a mock-Oscar statuette.  It will be cut-throat.  We will tease and taunt and humiliate each other.  It's one of my favorite nights of the year.

Yes, the Saint Marty clan takes its Oscars seriously.


A poem for tonight about bread . . .

Easter Bread

by:  Martin Achatz


My mother made it on Holy Saturday
In her bowl as green as Easter grass.
She'd mix water, salt, sugar, flour,
Shortening and yeast, fold it
With her hands, over and over,
Until dough took shape, white
As my winter skin.  Then she kneaded,
Pushed and pounded, picked it up,
Slammed it down on the kitchen table,
Made the room shake with violence,
Sounds like sledges and spikes,
Holy, Easter sounds.  After she was done,
My mother left the bowl on the counter,
Draped with a towel.  She waited
For the dough to leaven, the yeast
To work like prayer, make the dough
Rise higher and higher, swell, stretch
Like a pregnant womb.  My mother
Returned, kneaded, punched
It into submission, broke
Its will, began the process anew.
As night fell, the dough rose and rose.
Some time after I went to bed,
My mother sliced loaves, and baked. 
On Easter morning, I woke
To the aroma of fresh bread.
Resurrection, sweet and warm
As the wren.