November 27: Counting-House, Toys for Tots, Saint James of the March

Once upon a time--of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve--old Scrooge sat busy in his counting-house.

As far as I can tell, Scrooge lends money for a living.  I would like to say he's a loan shark, but there's simply not enough information in the novel for me to get a good idea about Scrooge's business.  There's one scene near the end of the book in which a poor couple is stressing over a debt.  It's a horrible scene.  The woman, at one point, asks her husband, "We are quite ruined?"  Scrooge is obviously the source of his stress.

I understand the kind of desperation the woman is expressing.  Money has been tight for my family.  I have never had to go to someone like Scrooge for my finances.  Thank goodness.  I have always somehow been able to pay my bills.  It's been difficult at times, but God has always provided us exactly what we've needed.

November 26 is the feast day of Saint James the March.  Among the things James did in his life was establish pawnshops to help the poor borrow money at very low rates.  He cared about the Bob Cratchits and Tiny Tims of the world.  He did a lot of other things, as well.  One story tells of how he converted over 50,000 people to Christianity with a single sermon.  Scrooge could have learned a lot from James the March.

This Thursday, I'm participating in a benefit Toys for Tots concert.  It's the second year my wife's church has sponsored the event.  My praise band is going to be performing.  I'm not comparing myself to James.  That would be the height of hubris.  James was the ambassador for popes.  I play keyboard in a Christian rock band.  But, like James, I'm using one of my gifts to help my neighbors.  James tried to make a difference in the world.  Scrooge eventually makes a difference in his world.

Saint Marty is trying to make a difference, as well, one song at a time.



I'm trying...

September 2: The Green Room, New Cartoon

Well, I played the Blues Fest with my praise band this morning.  It was a good time.  We had a small but enthusiastic crowd, and, for an hour or so, I got to be a musician in a Christian rock band.

After the gig, we wandered around the grounds, looking at the vendor booths and food stands.  We smelled the Cajun food being barbecued, the Thai food being steamed, the beer being poured (at noon).  Then we got escorted back to the green room behind the stage.  Yes, I, humble little ole me, got to go into the musician's tent.

There was a table with all kinds of candy.  Licorice.  Lemonheads.  Swedish fish.  There were coolers filled with any beverage you would want.  Coke.  Diet Coke.  Pepsi.  Diet Pepsi.  Beer of all kinds.  Wine, I think.  Then I went into another tent.  Fruit and sub sandwiches and doughnut holes and muffins.  One person told me the pizza was on the way.  The room was filled with couches and fans.  There were air-conditioned trailers.  And a lot of people who looked hungover.

I felt like a Rolling Stone.  I sat and ate and drank (diet pop).  I listened to the other artists/musicians talk about the party they'd had last night.  I had a great couple of hours, and then I returned to my real life.  My kids.  My wife.  My family.  It was nice having the fantasy for a little while.

But Saint Marty knows what's important.  A bowl of M&Ms.  All green.

Confessions of Saint Marty

August 25: Some Music, Musical Family, New Cartoon

After tea, they had some music.  For they were a musical family, and knew what they were about, when they sang a Glee of Catch, I can assure you especially Topper, who could growl away in the bass like a good one, and never swell the large veins in his forehead, or get red in the face over it.  Scrooge's niece played well upon the harp; and played among other tunes a simple little air (a mere nothing; you might learn to whistle it in two minutes), which had been familiar to the child who fetched Scrooge from the boarding-school, as he had been reminded by the Ghost of Christmas Past.  When this strain of music sounded, all the things that Ghost had shown him, came upon his mind; he softened more and more; and thought that if he could have listened to it often, years ago, he might have cultivated the kindness of life for his own happiness with his own hands, without resorting to the sexton's spade that buried Jacob Marley.

By all accounts, Charles Dickens loved to party.  He loved entertaining friends for dinner.  He loved going out to dinner and the theater.  He was a good actor and singer, and a decent magician.  He did all that, and he was a prolific novelist, essayist, short story writer, and magazine editor.  Can you tell he suffered from bipolar?  Well, he probably did, from all the information I've read about him.

So, when Dickens writes about Scrooge's nephew Fred's Christmas party, he knows of what he writes.  And music was always a big part of the festivities.

This afternoon, my church is having its annual picnic.  The praise band I'm in is providing the musical entertainment.  What that means for me is a lot of hauling equipment, standing behind a keyboard for a couple of hours under the sun, and then hauling the equipment back to church.  I'm not really enthused about the Saturday ahead of me.  I'd much rather just go to the picnic, eat some bratwurst and chips, visit with a few friends, and then leave.  That ain't gonna happen.

I guess I have less Charles Dickens in me than I care to admit.  I love being around people and entertaining, but I don't enjoy the work involved.  I should have roadies to set up my keyboard, and then I'd show up and play.  There's a reason why rock bands have roadies.  It's so the musicians can sit in their dressing rooms, eating green M&Ms until the concert, and then go play.  Yes, my praise band needs roadies.

I'd bet Charles Dickens had roadies.  I can't see the Inimitable building stages and carrying around harpsichords.  He had his peeps to do that for him.  Chuck never did anything half-arse.  I, on the other hand, will be busting my butt today.

At least Saint Marty will get some free hot dogs and chips for his efforts.

Confessions of Saint Marty

August 6: Tired and Happy

It has been a long night.  I went with my praise band to perform at a local Bible camp.  I wasn't looking forward to packing up the equipment.  I wasn't looking forward to unpacking the equipment.  I wasn't looking forward to setting up the equipment.  I wasn't looking forward to repeating the entire process in reverse.

As I thought, getting ready for the performance was not fun.  In fact, it was really stressful.  But then we started playing and singing.  It was great.  I really felt the presence of the Holy Spirit in that little chapel in the woods.  All of my anxiety and stress just sort of melted away, and I just let the moment overtake me.

So Saint Marty is tired and happy tonight, full of peace. 

The only thing that could make me happier

June 3: Weighing In, Turkey Dinner, New Cartoon

Sundays are the days I weigh in.  In the morning, I go to the bathroom, relieve myself of any excess weight that I can (if you understand what I mean).  Then, I strip down and step on the scale.  Some Sundays, I end up swearing at the scale for a few minutes, calling it a lying, hypocritical communist bastard.  Other Sunday mornings, I am pleased with the results.  Today, the scale and I are on friendly terms.  I'm not going to be taking it out for ice cream sundaes tonight, but at least I'm not going to make it sleep on the front porch.

Not a lot to blog about.  Church this morning.  The praise band in which I play got recognition today.  Each member of the band received a special certificate.  That was nice.  Not that we play in the band for recognition, but it's always good to know that your work is welcome and appreciated.  (Yes, that was a subtle hint for all readers of my blog who aren't official disciples to become followers.  Or at least post a comment.  Even saints get lonely.)

Well, dinner is almost on the table.  Deep-fried turkey with all the fixings.  Mashed potatoes.  Stuffing.  Corn.  I apologize to any of my readers who are vegan.  (Yup, that means you, Wondertwin.)  Have a great sabbath, everybody.

Saint Marty has to de-bone a turkey now.

Confessions of Saint Marty