August 3: An Illusion, World of Alternate Choices, Mansion on a Hill

Trillian, Ford, and Zaphod trying to come to terms with their current predicament . . .

"Who put all that [gold] there?" yelped Zaphod, goggle-eyed.

"Don't get excited," said Ford, "it's only a catalog."

"A who?"

"A catalog," said Trillian, "an illusion."

"How can you say that?" cried Zaphod, falling to his hands and knees and staring at the ground.  He poked it and prodded it.  It was very heavy and very slightly soft--he could mark it with his fingernail.  It was very yellow and very shiny, and when he breathed on it his breath evaporated off it in that very peculiar and special way that breath evaporates off solid gold.

"Trillian and I came round a while ago," said Ford.  "We shouted and yelled till somebody came and then carried on shouting and yelling till they got fed up and put us in their planet catalog to keep us busy till they were ready to deal with us.  This is all Sens-O-Tape."

Zaphod stared at him bitterly.

"Ah, shit," he said, "you wake me up from my own perfectly good dream to show me somebody else's."  He sat down in a huff.

"What's that series of valleys over there?" he said.

"Hallmark," said Ford.  "We had a look."

"We didn't wake you earlier," said Trillian.  "The last planet was knee-deep in fish."

"Fish?"

"Some people like the oddest things."

"And before that," said Ford, "we had platinum.  Bit dull.  We thought you'd like to see this one though."

Seas of light glared at them in one solid blaze wherever they looked.

Everyone has different dreams.  A planet of gold.  A planet filled with fish.  A planet where Donald Trump was never born.  A planet where cell phones never existed.  A planet designed to be one big Disney World.  A planet where mental illness and addiction could simply be cured by eating a vanilla ice cream cone or a banana split.  I could go on.

Dreams are wonderful things, fueled by imagination and hope and perfection.  Of course, I know that living a life of dreams is not healthy.  No matter how much I want it, I probably will never wake up, get dressed, and go out to breakfast with Charles Dickens, Barack Obama, and Flannery O'Connor.  Not gonna happen.

Yesterday, I was speaking with a very smart person about things that are happening in my life.  At one point in our conversation, this person said to me, "You know, people who say things like 'Well, this is God's will' and 'God has a plan in all this' are full of shit.  There's this little thing called freewill involved in everything.  What God has is foreknowledge of the consequences of each choice a person makes."

Imagine a world of alternate choices.  What if, 2,000 years ago, the Roman centurions hammering ordered to hammer those spikes into Christ's hands and feet had made the choice to set him free instead?  What if Adolf Hitler had spent his whole life as a struggling artist, painting and painting and painting?  What if Eve had never taken a bite of that apple?

I can see the path of the choices I've made, how one decision led to another decision that led to another decision, on and on, leading to where I am at this moment.  Of course, no choice is perfect, unless you're Jesus Christ.  Christ was fully human, with freewill, just like the rest of us.  Yet, he made all the right decisions and went on to save the human race from itself.

This morning, I'm thinking about the perfect world of my choices.  What planet I thought/wish my decisions would have landed me.  My personal Magrathean planet, designed to my specifications.  It would look a lot like the planet I live on now.  The same place--the Upper Peninsula of Michigan (perhaps with milder winter weather).  The same people--my wife, daughter, son, sisters, brothers, sisters-in-law, family, friends.  Because I love the people in my life and where I have chosen to make my home.

Now, for the perfection.  My life and the people in it would be free of mental illness and addiction.  Every day, I would watch my wife and children flourish in healthy, loving ways, our lives simply a measure of the love we have for each other and the world around us.

In the morning, I would get up, wander into my study, and write poetry for several hours.  I would drop these poems in the mail in the afternoon.  In a few days' time, I would receive a check in the mail for those poems, providing enough money to pay my bills, fill my cupboards and refrigerator, and allow me to put some aside for rainy days, which never arrive.

I would teach full-time at the university, and I would have the respect of my colleagues and students.  I would be the poet every student wants as a professor.  Young people would enroll as English majors just because they want to be in my classes.  I would be able to teach courses like "Introduction to Sacred Poems" and "Spiritual Autobiography" and "The Mythos and Poetry of Star Wars."

And, at the end of the night, my daughter will kiss me goodnight; my son will hug me and say "You're the best daddy in the whole world!"; my wife and I will sit in our living room for an hour or so, discussing the day's events; and then, around eleven, we would go to bed, fall asleep in each other's arms, telling each other how much we love each other.

That is my perfect world, the perfect result of the choices I have made in my life, everything scrubbed clean of pain and hurt and illness and disappointment.  My mansion on a hill, as the old gospel song goes.

No person lives in her/his perfect world.  Yet, it's wonderful to imagine it.  Yes, I'm getting a little John Lennon here.  I have found myself imagining it a lot in recent weeks.  It gets me through long days of struggle.  I'm not sure it's a healthy practice, but I also believe a life without hope isn't really a life I want a part of.

And Saint Marty still hopes to find a room in his mansion on a hill.

A picture a friend sent me yesterday that fills me with hope . . .

April 6: Very Very Improbable, Good Improbabilities, Fill Me Up

Zaphod Beeblebrox and Trillian are arguing about the presence of Arthur and Ford on their stolen spaceship . . .

He tapped irritably at a control panel.  Trillian quietly moved his hand before he tapped anything important,  Whatever Zaphod's qualities of mind might include--dash, bravado, conceit--he was mechanically inept and could easily blow the ship up with an extravagant gesture.  Trillian had come to suspect that the main reason he had had such a wild and successful life was that he never really understood the significance of anything he did.

"Zaphod," she said patiently, "they were floating unprotected in open space . . . you wouldn't want them to have died, would you?"

"Well, you know . . . no.  Not as such, but . . ."

"Not as such?  Not die as such?  But?"  Trillian cocked her head on one side.

"Well, maybe someone else might have picked them up later."

"A second later and they would have been dead."

"Yeah, so if you'd taken the trouble to think about the problem a bit longer it would have gone away."

"You'd have been happy to let them die?"

"Well, you know, not happy, as such, but . . ."

"Anyway," said Trillian, turning back to the controls, "I didn't pick them up."

"What do you mean?  Who picked them up then?"

"The ship did."

"Huh?"

"The ship did.  All by itself."

"Huh?"

"While we were in Improbability Drive."

"But that's incredible."

"No, Zaphod.  Just very very improbable."

"Er, yeah."

You know, I've been dealing with the improbable for quite a while.  Some of the faithful disciples of this blog may argue with my use of the word "improbable."  They would say that everything that I write about is fairly common--experiences that many people have every day.  That may be true.  People are diagnosed with lymphoma of the brain every day.  People are displaced from their jobs every day.  People work three and four jobs every day to pay their bills.  People's brother and sisters and parents die every day.  I know all this.  However, to me, my life seems improbable, and I have the same kind of reaction to this improbability that Zaphod has.  I bristle and complain.

I'm sitting in McDonald's this morning, after a fairly emotional week of goodbyes and endings, feeling a little empty.  Like I don't have any more to give at the moment.  In the coming week, I start a new/old job with new hours and duties.  There will be a learning curve for sure.  It's not a job that I'm particularly excited about.  I'm sure my attitude will change eventually.  I'm still adjusting to the upcoming change, and you all know how well I deal with change.

So, indulge me today.  I'm going to try to think about the good improbabilities of my life.  Things that fill me up again.

IMPROBABILITY #1:  I am a poet.  This one has brought into my life many joys.  Friends.  Opportunities.  Ways to do good in the world.  At this moment, my tribe consists of poets who think like me, share my values.

IMPROBABILITY #2:  I am the Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula, for the second time in a row.  This one still blows me away.  There are so many great writers who've been nominated for this position.  Mentors and friends and heroes.  The fact that this plumber's son was chosen still amazes me.

IMPROBABILITY #3:  My daughter.  She's 18 years old, about to graduate from high school.  Smart and beautiful and compassionate and passionate.  She danced into my life one cold December morning, and she fills me with improbable love.

IMPROBABILITY #4:  My son.  My orange child.  He's so much like me that it's frightening.  We butt heads.  A lot.  But he makes me laugh, gives me hope.  (Of course, that hope is sometimes that he doesn't end up in prison, but it's still hope.)  Improbable love, yet again.

IMPROBABILITY #5:  My wife.  Next year will be our 25th wedding anniversary.  We have our share of struggles over the years.  Things that would have broken most marriages irreparably.  Yet, here we are.  Still struggling, but more in love than ever.  Improbable love.

IMPROBABILITY #6:  I lived to see the first African American President of the United States.  This one gives me hope, even in the dark time we're in right now in my country.  We got it right once.  We'll get it right again.

IMPROBABILITY #7:  My friends.  All of them.  I have a large tribe of people who genuinely care about my welfare.  When I'm feeling down, they reach out, do things that life me up.  When I have something to celebrate, they are the ones putting the candles on the cake.

IMPROBABILITY #8:  My brothers and sisters.  Dysfunction is always a part of familial relationships.  Yet, I know that these people have my back, will do anything to help me out when the chips are down.  They'll just bitch about it when I've crawled out of the hole.

IMPROBABILITY #9:  My wife's family.  These individuals welcomed me into their clubhouse over 25 years ago.  Recognized a fellow freak, I guess.  They continue to fill my life with acceptance, humor, and love.  Plus, they serve alcohol at Christmas dinner.

IMPROBABILITY #10:  The future.  I don't always think about the future as happy and fulfilling.  I'm a pretty pessimistic person a lot of the time.  However, in the past few weeks, as I've been struggling with my job and life situation, so many people have told me, "There's something better coming for you.  There is."  So, here's to something better.  Amen.

There you go.  I embraced goodness and hope this morning.  Don't worry.  Tomorrow, I'll be back to my old, cynical self tomorrow.

Today, however, Saint Marty is all about good improbabilities.

January 6: The Spouter Inn, Color of Snow, New Kind of Rabbit

With halting steps I paced the streets, and passed the sign of "The Crossed Harpoons"- but it looked too expensive and jolly there. Further on, from the bright red windows of the "Sword-Fish Inn," there came such fervent rays, that it seemed to have melted the packed snow and ice from before the house, for everywhere else the congealed frost lay ten inches thick in a hard, asphaltic pavement,- rather weary for me, when I struck my foot against the flinty projections, because from hard, remorseless service the soles of my boots were in a most miserable plight. Too expensive and jolly, again thought I, pausing one moment to watch the broad glare in the street, and hear the sounds of the tinkling glasses within. But go on, Ishmael, said I at last; don't you hear? get away from before the door; your patched boots are stopping the way. So on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets that took me waterward, for there, doubtless, were the cheapest, if not the cheeriest inns.

Such dreary streets! blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand, and here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a tomb. At this hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of the town proved all but deserted. But presently I came to a smoky light proceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which stood invitingly open. It had a careless look, as if it were meant for the uses of the public; so, entering, the first thing I did was to stumble over an ash-box in the porch. Ha! thought I, ha, as the flying particles almost choked me, are these ashes from that destroyed city, Gomorrah? But "The Crossed Harpoons," and the "The Sword-Fish?"- this, then must needs be the sign of "The Trap." However, I picked myself up and hearing a loud voice within, pushed on and opened a second, interior door.

It seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet. A hundred black faces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a black Angel of Doom was beating a book in a pulpit. It was a negro church; and the preacher's text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping and wailing and teeth-gnashing there. Ha, Ishmael, muttered I, backing out, Wretched entertainment at the sign of 'The Trap!'

Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far from the docks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up, saw a swinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly representing tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words underneath- "The Spouter Inn:- Peter Coffin."

Ishmael is on the search for an inn to lodge.  He's in a strange city.  Knows nobody.  He is walking by instinct, trying to find a place that seems in keeping with his situation.  His boots are worn.  He has little money.  Some of the establishments are too bright and crowded.  Others, too rundown and questionable.  Even The Trap, an African American church, fills Ishmael with a feeling of unwelcome.  And then he happens upon The Spouter Inn, run by Peter Coffin.  Whales and death in one little sign.  Like the Holy Family, Ishmael finally finds a place to stay, even if it isn't ideal or particularly amenable.

It's strange.  Ever since I started Moby-Dick six days ago, the language of my blog posts has changed.  I find myself using words like "amenable" and phrases like "in keeping with his situation."  It's as if Herman Melville's prose is seeping into mine.  That's okay, though.  I don't mind if Ishmael finds a room in my words.  I love the density of the phrases and sentences and paragraphs.

There's something very postmodern in Melville's tale, I think.  A kind of self-consciousness in Ishmael's words.  This becomes even more obvious later in the book, when Melville spends pages talking about the color white.  I'm not sure how the manuscript of Moby-Dick would fare in a graduate school fiction writing workshop, however, let alone with the contemporary publishing industry.  Melville may have had to self-publish it as an e-book.

Yet, Moby-Dick was published in 1851.  Not too much fanfare or acclaim.  Over time, it has grown in stature and importance in the American literature canon.  Dissertations are written about it.  Movies.  Television.  Even the film Jaws owes something to Melville, with the shark hunter, Quint, coming across as some modern-day Ahab on the trail of his great white shark.  It's amazing, really.

That's what happens with great works of art.  They sneak into culture in strange and non-obvious ways, just like Melville's writing style has sort of sneaked into my blog posts these last few days.  Maybe, at the end of this year, I will be writing long, digressive posts on the color of snow or the legs of snowflakes.  That's what writers do.  They steal the best things from writers they admire.  

I can say that my work has been greatly influenced by quite a few poets--Sharon Olds, Galway Kinnell, Billy Collins, Judith Minty, Robert Frost, Walt Whitman . . . I could go on for a long time.  I learn things from other writers.  Throw their tricks into my magic top hat, wave my magic wand, and, hopefully, pull out a new kind of rabbit.  One that is wholly mine.

I don't mind wandering around the dark streets with Ishmael.  Don't mind getting lost in Melville's maze of language.  There's something comforting in it, like being in a classroom with a teacher you love but not really understanding the lecture completely.  Listening to Albert Einstein speaking about time.  Stephen Hawking about black holes.  Barack Obama about civic responsibility.  Herman Melville about whaling.

Saint Marty is thankful today for great writing and great art.

October 19: Bombings and Sky Battles, Synchronicity, Barack Obama

Just about the time poor Valencia was pronounced dead, Lily came into Billy's and Rumfoord's room with an armload of books.  Rumfoord had sent her down to Boston to get them.  He was working on a one-volume history of the United States Army Air Corps in World War Two.  The books were about bombings and sky battles that had happened before Lily was even born.

Really, this passage is all about dovetailing.  All of the details of Billy's life sort of funnel together in this moment.  Billy in the hospital bed.  His wife just dead.  His roommate a history professor writing a book about the bombings of World War II, Dresden, I'm sure, among them.  There's a certain synchronicity in what is happening.

In writing, I love this kind of happenstance, when the elements of a novel or essay or poem all coalesce and things become a little clearer.  Now, this passage doesn't necessarily tie up the loose ends of Slaughterhouse, but it certainly feels like the beginning of the end.

This kind of dovetailing rarely happens in real life.  There's too much chaos.  Too much entropy.  Things tend to fall apart in the world, not come together.  I know that sounds pessimistic, but recent events in the United States bear this observation out.  At the end of the Presidency of Barack Obama, the country seemed to be in a good place.  We were on the road to a kind of universal health care.  Job growth for eight years.  Climate change was a priority.  Tolerance and love were the norm.  And almost the entire world respected us.

Now . . . well, Donald Trump.

I'm not going to devolve into an anti-Trump rant.  What I'm saying is that things don't feel like they're coming together any more.  I'm not living in the epilogue to the Obama Presidency.  I'm living in the prologue to Mein Kampf.

Saint Marty is thankful for the synchronicity of Barack Obama.

January 16: Time Was Ripe, Nonconformists, Martin Luther King Jr.

"Don't lie to me, Father," said Barbara.  "I know perfectly well you heard me when I called."  This was a fairly pretty girl, except that she had legs like an Edwardian grand piano.  Now she raised hell with him about the letter in the paper.  She said he was making a laughing stock of himself and everybody associated with him.

"Father, Father, Father--" said Barbara, "what are we going to do with you?  Are you going to force us to put you where your mother is?"  Billy's mother was still alive.  She was in bed in an old people's home called Pine Knoll on the edge of Ilium.

"What is it about my letter that makes you so mad?" Billy wanted to know.

"It's all crazy.  None of it's true!"

"It's all true."  Billy's anger was not going to rise with hers.  He never got mad at anything.  He was wonderful that way.

"There is no such planet as Tralfamdore."

"It can't be detected from Earth, if that's what you mean," said Billy.  "Earth can't be detected from Tralfamadore, as far as that goes.  They're both very small.  They're very far apart."

"Where did you got a crazy name like 'Tralfamadore?'" 

"That's what the creatures who live there call it."

"Oh God," said Barbara, and she turned her back on him.  She celebrated frustration by clapping her hands.  "May I ask you a simple question?"

"Of course."

"Why is it you never mentioned any of this before the airplane crash?"

"I didn't think the time was ripe."

Barbara doesn't believe Billy.  She thinks her dad is going a little bit . . . cuckoo.  Little green men.  Time traveling.  Distant planets.  If my father started talking like Billy, I would probably consider putting in him Pine Knoll, too.  The problem is that Billy is telling the truth, but he has no way of proving it to his daughter. 

Any person with ideas that don't conform to the norm are considered cuckoo.  A lot of the time, the nonconformists suffer for their beliefs.  Some pay the ultimate price.  Jesus Christ.  Abraham Lincoln.  Gandhi.  Today celebrates Martin Luther King Jr.  Now, King didn't accept the status quo.  He questioned, probed, argued, marched.  He knew that he was right, and he refused to back down, even in the face of great adversity.  Of course, he paid for his beliefs in blood.

I've been thinking a lot about Dr. King today.  His courage and moral fiber.  Certainly, he wasn't a perfect man.  He had his flaws.  Everybody does.  Yet, his cause was true and right.  That's what was important.  Dr. King didn't live to see the fruits of his efforts.  If it weren't for Dr. King, Colin Powell probably wouldn't have been Secretary of State.  And Barack Obama would never have been President of the United States.

On the cusp of the inauguration, I celebrate everything that Martin Luther King Jr. stood for.  Equality.  Acceptance.  Integrity.  Faith in humanity.

Saint Marty is grateful today for Dr. King.

November 22: Watching the News, Miller Williams, "Going Deaf"

I just finished watching the news.  A good portion of it was devoted to Donald Trump.  I have been making an effort to stay away from the topic of Trump in my blog posts, for I am still beyond dumbfounded at the results of the election.

On my local PBS station tonight, a documentary about the history of African Americans in the United States was airing.  I caught the last 40 or so minutes of it.  It showed footage from the night that Barack Obama was first elected President of the United States, and it filled me, for a few moments, with happiness.  I just remember all the hope of that night.  I actually believed that my country had somehow fundamentally changed.  We were better.  Kinder.  More just.

Not feeling that so much anymore.  I guess that I'm going to have to avoid watching the news for the next four years, or at least until Donald Trump gets impeached.  It may be the only way I'll survive without having some kind of stroke or developing a personality disorder.

Perhaps Saint Marty should just pretend that he's deaf.

Going Deaf

by:  Miller Williams

No matter how she tilts her head to hear

she sees the irritation in their eyes.

She knows how they can read a small rejection,

a little judgment, in every What did you say?

So now she doesn’t say What? or Come again?

She lets the syllables settle, hoping they form

some sort of shape that she might recognize.

When they don’t, she smiles with everyone else,

and then whoever was talking turns to her

and says, “Break wooden coffee, don’t you know?”

She pulls all she can focus into the face

to know if she ought to nod or shake her head.

In that long space her brain talks to itself.

The person may turn away as an act of mercy,

leaving her there in a room full of understanding

with nothing to cover her, neither sound nor silence .

That was a really good night.

November 21: Poet of the Week, Miller Williams, "For a Girl I Know about to Be a Woman"

So, there have been five poets who have read at U. S. presidential inaugurations since 1961:  Robert Frost, Maya Angelou, Elizabeth Alexander, Richard Blanco, and this week's Poet of the Week--Miller Williams.  Funny enough, all of these poets participated in the inaugural ceremonies of Democratic Presidents of the United States.  John F. Kennedy.  Bill Clinton.  Barack Obama.  You can decide for yourself why no poet has read at the presidential inauguration of a Republican.

There's a big brouhaha on the Internet right now about what poet would read at the inauguration of Donald Trump.  Lots of bad protest verse is being written.  My prediction is that there will not be a poet at the Trump inauguration.  It would be too difficult to get through the crowds in white sheets.  (That is my one and only Trump joke for this post.)

Miller Williams read at the second inauguration of President Bill Clinton.  Williams was a native of Arkansas (just like Maya Angelou four years before).  Later in the week, I will include Williams' inauguration poem.  Tonight, however, I found one that speaks to any father of a teenage daughter.

Saint Marty wishes he had written this poem.

For a Girl I Know about to Be a Woman

by:  Miller Williams

Because you’ll find how hard it can be

to tell which part of your body sings,

you never should dally with any young man

who does any one of the following things:

tries to beat all the yellow lights;

says, “Big deal!” or “So what?”

more than seven times a day;

ignores yellow lines in a parking lot;

carries a radar detector;

asks what you did with another date;

has more than seven bumper stickers;

drinks beer early and whiskey late;

talks on a cellular phone at lunch;

tunes to radio talk shows;

doesn’t fasten his seat belt;

knows more than God knows;

wants you to change how you do your hair;

spits in a polystyrene cup;

doesn’t use his turn signal;

wants you to change your makeup;

calls your parents their given names;

doesn’t know why you don’t smoke;

has dirt under his fingernails;

makes a threat and calls it a joke;

pushes to get you to have one more;

seems to have trouble staying awake;

says “dago” and “wop” and words like that;

swerves a car to hit a snake;

sits at a table wearing a hat;

has a boneless handshake.

You’re going to know soon enough

the ones who fail this little test.

Mark them off your list at once

and be very careful of all the rest.

Robert Frost at President Kennedy's Inauguration

November 13: Christmas Decorating, Exhaustion, Classic Saint Marty

Spent the afternoon putting up Christmas decorations on my front porch.  Every year, one member of our family chooses a theme for the decorations.  We have had Beanie Baby Christmas, Candy Land Christmas, Blue Christmas, Just Like the Ones I Used to Know Christmas.  This year, my daughter chose Gingerbread Christmas.

Of course, putting up Christmas decorations is never a completely joyous occasion.  There's usually some arguing and swearing.  Today, I had to go out and buy a new staple gun at the local Ace Hardware.  I hate going into hardware stores.  Feel totally out of my element.  I purchased a staple gun, but I got the wrong staples.  Had to go back.

Tonight, we have some gingerbread houses to decorate.  Frosting and gum drops and sprinkles and M&Ms.  The whole shebang.  Hopefully, there won't be too much bloodshed before they are all done.  I hope that I can stay awake.  It's been a really busy weekend.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired four years ago, right after Barack Obama was elected for a second term as President of the United States.  Things have changed.  A lot.

November 15, 2012:  Humbug, Giving Thanks, Potty Training

"Bah!" said Scrooge.  "Humbug!"

Scrooge utters this little phrase so many times during A Christmas Carol that it has become part of the public consciousness, like "Frankly, my dear" or "I'll get you my pretty."  Everybody knows what "bah humbug" means and where it comes from.  If I say "bah humbug," I am expressing a particularly Scrooge-ish attitude toward something, whether it's Christmas or the latest episode of The Walking Dead.  I am basically saying, "This whole idea is a crock of shit."

That's a pretty unusual opening for my Blessing Thursday post.  I should be happy and exuberant about my subject.  Blessings are positive forces.  They fulfill hope or desire, whether spoken or unspoken.  I am ambivalent about my topic this morning because it has to do with one of my least favorite parental duties.

For the past couple years, we have been trying to potty train my son.  The process has been a series of successes and regressions.  My son will urinate in his potty.  I have seen him piss so much that I thought it was going to overflow the bowl.  My son is not attached to his pee.  He will surrender it willingly.  His poop, on the other hand, seems to be gold-plated.  He doesn't want to part with it.  He would prefer to stand in a corner, with his legs crossed, instead of sitting down and having a healthy BM.  Since he started potty training on Monday, we have gone through about eight or nine pairs of underwear and pants.  It hasn't been pleasant.

It was his preschool teacher who suggested simply switching to underwear.  Her reasoning went something like this:  if our son feels uncomfortable and gross when he craps his pants, he will choose to go on the toilet.  In theory, it sounds pretty good.  In practice, it kind of sucks.  At Burger King this evening, we went through two pairs of pants and underwear.  Not only does my son not care if he shits in his pants, but he also doesn't mind walking around with said fecal matter on his person.

I am not complaining, however.  I'm giving thanks.  My son will eventually grasp the concept of toilets. He'll realize that shit is gross.  It's just going to take a lot of soiled clothing to get there.  But he's on his way.  My daughter struggled with potty training, as well.  She was well into second grade before she had completely conquered this task.

For those parents who tell fairy tales of children who simply decide one day to quit diapers and use the toilet, Saint Marty has one thing to say:  "Bah!  Humbug!"

November 5: Idle People, President Willard, "Carol" Dip Monday

..."Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer.  I don't make merry myself at Christmas, and I can't afford to make idle people merry.  I help to support the establishments I have mentioned:  they cost enough:  and those who are badly off must go there."

No, the quotation above is not Mitt Romney, although it certainly could be.  I tried to find a passage from Charles Dickens that could have come from the mouth of our esteemed presidential candidate.  Then I realized that anything spoken by the early Ebenezer Scrooge, pre-redemption, could have come from the lips of any Republican running for office this election.

If you can't tell, this post is going to be about the upcoming election.  One day to go, and every other commercial on TV and the radio is some kind of political advertisement.  "Vote Yes of Proposal 2."  "Vote No on Proposal 2."  "Barack Obama has ruined the country."  "Barack Obama has saved the country."  Even for a political junkie like myself, it's starting to wear a little thin.

That being said, I would like to take a few last cheap shots at Willard Romney.  (Yes, that is his real name.  If he is elected, we will have a President Willard.  Imagine what he will do for the welfare of rats everywhere.)  I was reading an opinion piece by Juan Williams this morning.  The article was titled "A Romney win would be a victory for shameless cynicism."  It was published on the website The Hill.  In the post/essay, Williams talks about how the Romney people have tried to turn every accomplishment of President Obama into a liability.  (George W. did that with John Kerry's military service in 2004.)

Mr. Obama took out enemy number one of the United States.  Mr. Romney now questions President Obama's dedication to the security of the United States because of the tragic killing of the U.S. ambassador to Libya.  President Obama supported the bailout that saved the auto industry in this country.  A week ago, the Romney campaign released a commercial in Ohio falsely hinting that Chrysler was going to move Jeep manufacturing to China.  Coming from a political party that gave us Dubya, who, in eight years, started two wars and oversaw an economic recession, Willard Romney doesn't have much firm ground to stand on.  Mr. Williams quotes a Romney  pollster who said, "We will not have our campaign dictated by fact-checkers."

That is the truth.  If you check the facts, Mr. Romney is a "cipher candidate."  I have no idea where he stands on any issue.  He keeps saying, "I stand behind America," but I have no idea what that means.  He's built his entire presidential bid on cynicism instead of hope.  I can't get behind that.

This Monday, my question for Chuck Dickens is easy:

Will Barack Obama be reelected President of the United States tomorrow?

And the answer from the great book of Christmas is:

...I am here to-night to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate.  A chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer...

There you have it.  We will escape the Marley/Republican fate of chains and poverty and hunger.

Saint Marty can relax.  The United States still has a chance and hope.  A chance and hope of Barack Obama's procuring.

I won't pay to see this movie

October 4: Tired of Debates

I am tired of hearing how poorly Barack Obama performed in the presidential debate last night.  He looked tired.  He was dismissive.  He was rude.  I'm also tired of hearing how Mitt Romney hit it out of the ballpark last night.  He was energetic.  He brought his "A" game.  He didn't let President Obama off the hook.  He looked presidential.  I'm not saying this because I'm an Obama supporter (I am), and I'm not saying this because I hate Mitt Romney (I do).  I'm saying this because it seems like the reporters and commentators were watching a different debate than I was.

From my side of the television set, both candidates did well.  Both were articulate.  Both had good command of the facts and statistics.  Both made good cases for their points of view.  I didn't see a tired or snippy Barack Obama.  I didn't see a commanding Mitt Romney.  I saw two guys who were expressing their plans for the future of the United States of America.  And expressing them well.

Now, do I agree with one candidate more than the other?  You betcha.  However, even before the debate last night, I heard people on the radio and TV saying that Barack Obama was going to lose, that Mitt Romney was hungrier.  The outcome was decided before either man stepped foot on the stage.  That annoys the hell out of me.

Politics has always been kind of a blood sport.  After listening to the debates about the debate all day long, I have to say that I think a lot of the blood is supplied by the people doing the reporting.

That's just one humble saint's opinion.

Let's just vote and get it over with now