What's wrong (and right) with those pictures.

OK, time's up:

The issue is seen right smack on the covers of the books, and is not a problem with the content.

Look at the first one--written by Darrell Bock. Who he? Fine, fair point--Bock is an evangelical professor at the Dallas Theological Seminary. He's not a lightweight, either--in addition to heavy lifting on the book front, he's probably most familiar as a voice of reason in the semi-annual "Who's This Jesus Guy, Anyway?" specials the networks run, playing off against the wacky ravings of folks like John ("He's dead! Dead! Dead! Dead!") Crossan.

But when faced with a best-seller causing a crisis of faith amongst the laity, Bock employs his knowledge to assist the perplexed laity in a "popular" work. In fact, that's one of the great things I admire about evangelicalism--their scholars remember they, too, are part of the Body of Christ, and not some academic clerisy set apart from the vulgar unwashed.

I've noted this before, if you're interested.

More to the point is that the Foreword is written Fr. Francis J. Moloney, the dean of the theology department at the Catholic University of America. The Foreword is pretty lackluster, essentially a regurgitation of the received wisdom regarding the textual formation of the Gospels, but ultimately critical of Brown's opus, ending with a rah-rah for Bock's work.

Again, who he? Fr. Moloney is regarded as one of the top drawer Catholic exegetes in the English-speaking world. But he doesn't think much of "unscholarly" popular piety. Consider his condescending take on TPOTC, where he managed the impressive feat of finding it at once laughable, too-violent, silly, ridiculous and sleep-inducing. But fortunately, Fr. allows that it's OK for ignorant vulgarians to be inspired by it--after all, not everyone brings multiple degrees and historical-critical apparati to the table, leaving them unable to see through the "errors":

Moloney said his views reflect the general consensus among biblical scholars. He acknowledged that many people do not bring what scholars bring to the film, and "we've got to respect that."

How very white of him. Exhibit A for demonstrating the complete disconnect between most Catholic scholars and the rest of the Church. Be that as it may, liking or disliking the most controversial film of 2004 (I'm not giving the Flint Blimp/Davison Dirigible credit for anything) isn't a benchmark for orthodoxy. But it does raise an interesting related question no one in the disconnected world of academia has even bothered to ask: why was the film such a phenomenon among average Catholics? Maybe there's something lacking in your own endeavors....Naaaah. Just voyeurs lining up for a snuff film, I'm sure.

The fact that Fr. Moloney wrote the Foreword should be a credit to him, but it isn't upon further review. After all, if he found the book so problematic and was willing to sign on for the Foreword, why didn't he write this himself? Why didn't he use his learning to help struggling sisters and brothers?

Is leaving the academic orbit that hard for the degreed elite (ordained or no)? N.T. Wright does it all the bloody time (and, to be blunt, there's almost no one in Catholic biblical scholarship who can carry his jock) without harm to his prodigious reputation.

But our boys and girls don't. And they never will--it's unscholarly, don't you know? Doesn't count toward the "Publish or Perish" Quota. Would hate to be regarded as a vulgar popularizer.

Which leaves you with this reasonable query: what use is "mainstream" American Catholic scholarship, anyway? They won't answer to the hierarchy (the mandatum) and they won't serve the laity. Existing to protect your own privileges is a sure sign of irrelevance.

I don't often quote Puritan dictators, but Cromwell's advice to the Rump Parliament in 1653, backed up by scores of armed veterans, fits here:

You have sat too long for any good you have been doing lately... Depart, I say; and let us have done with you. In the name of God, go!

Thank God for Protestants like Darrell Bock: he's done more for Catholics made confused and anxious by Brown than the entire Catholic academy in the United States.

Ponder that for a moment.

Which brings us to the good news--the laity are picking up the slack, as the other two books show. They have to--waiting around for clergy and scholars "in the Catholic tradition" to respond is waiting for Godot. Nothing will happen otherwise.

It should be painfully evident that the crises of the Church in this country will not be solved by anyone other than an educated and motivated laity. Sure, there are good bishops out there--but even where you have one, it's not like the guy can be everywhere at once, a one man fire brigade responding to every whiff of smoke. It can't be done, and it's a recipe for sure disappointment (and a reservation at the Rubber Hilton for the ordinary).

The bishop's not coming to your rescue if your liturgy involves beachball-tossing spandex-clad women in brushcuts interpreting the sacred scripture of Deepak Chopra. The Roman Cavalry is not riding over the hill, trumpets blaring and carbines firing, to save you from catechists who insist the Church no longer believes in the Real Presence. The tenured aristocrats at your local CINO university don't give two shineolas about secular or religious fundamentalists of any stripe roiling the consciences of mere layfolk.

If you want anything done, your workforce can be viewed in the mirror.

There's your situation report. Back to the fight.

All together now...

Today is Heather's birthday.  Offer your best wishes, as my child bride turns 29 today.

Again.  [Dodging rotten fruit and cast iron kitchenware.]  Actually, she's pretty up front about her age, when asked.  But even pseudo-gentlemen like me never tell.

Haaaa-ppy Birthday to youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu....

In addition to the classic standard, I'll also be serenading her with my best Elvis impressions (think Vegas Elvis circa late 1976, not the '68 Comeback Special).  Covers of "Burnin' Love" and "Heartbreak Hotel" to follow.

What's wrong with this picture?
 
Take a look at this scholarly debunking of the laughable Da Vinci Code. 

No help?  Take a close look at the cover.

Still no help?

Take a look at the covers of two other fine refutations, and it will become more clear.

I'll fill you in later.

At long last.

Or something--the new joint blog is up and running.  As ever, it remains a work in fragile progress. 

Updates for family life on the East Side's Loudest Street will be forthcoming.

 

Now hear this: Men, bust out your suits.

SAM has a worthwhile rant about men's fashion at Mass--read the whole thing.

I get tired of watching T-shirted men sandal-flopping up to the altar like they were in line for beer and brats. I don’t understand why polo shirts and blue jeans are acceptable attire for an audience with the King of Kings. I don’t see why a man can’t take fifteen minutes to shave (or trim his beard) before going to Mass. These guys wouldn’t dress that way to bury their mothers, but they dress like that to see the God-Man die for their sins? Only adolescents and fools would treat the occasion so, and men who dress like that should never complain about the scant attention the Church pays to their masculinity -- they should expect instead to remain marginalized adolescents and doofuses. Take a moment to consider the clothing of powerful men, men who are doing significant public things. They don’t wear T-Shirts, cargo shorts or sneakers. When and if they ever do it’s only because they want to reassure you that it doesn’t matter if you’re average and they’re not. When it’s important, when their reputations and positions are on the line, they wear jackets, ties, and dress shoes. Because that, my brothers, is the clothing a man wears when his reputation and position is on the line, the clothing that says that he’s a man, he’s serious, and he’s doing something significant. The difference is that in the Mass none of us are average and all of us are doing something important, significant, and public. Chosen generation? Royal priesthood? Holy nation? Any of that ring a bell, doofus?

Let me chime in with my two cents--I think the problem of attire at Church a symptom of the crisis in faith. I've been an offender myself, especially early on at Mass. Shorts? Yep--at a child's baptism, no less (I'm still cringing at that one). Jeans? Oh, definitely--and not the fresh of the shelf variety, either. My only mitigating factor? I wasn't Catholic for most of these episodes (the baptism being one). Did I have a clue of what was going on? No, not really. The girlfriend (now lovingly addressed with such terms as "Yes, honey" and "What?") wanted to go to a couple of masses, so I obliged. But I didn't go all out to dress up.

The reason? I didn't know I was in the presence of the King of Kings, for starters. It was only after I started converting that I realized that the bread and wine were a little more significant than I had understood them to be.

Uh oh.

Not that I am all the way there, yet. But the suit leaf is being turned over.

Try it this way: years of being told that the Mass is simply a meal have had their effect. Jesus' presence in any way shape or form (word, sacrament, even wherever two or three are gathered in His Name) is rarely emphasized. The Mass is too often a communitarian exercise that has all the meaning of a family barbeque, only with a lot more relatives you don't know well (or happen to like even less).

It is no longer the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, it's a singalong folk concert with a short refreshment list. People are going to dress accordingly. If you truly believe that the cosmic veil has been torn--that you are in the presence of the Lamb of God in the re-presentation of Calvary--you will not dress like you are going to mow the lawn or to retrieve the paper from the curb. Or like Michael Moore on one of those days when he just doesn't have the gumption to spiff himself up to his usual high standards.

People who don't, will. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

To close, I'll only add that it apparently matters to the Lord, too, for those He invites into His presence:

8 Then he said to his servants, 'The wedding feast is ready, but those invited were not worthy. 9 Go therefore to the main roads and invite to the wedding feast as many as you find.' 10 And those servants went out into the roads and gathered all whom they found, both bad and good. So the wedding hall was filled with guests.11 "But when the king came in to look at the guests, he saw there a man who had no wedding garment. 12 And he said to him, 'Friend, how did you get in here without a wedding garment?' And he was speechless. 13 Then the king said to the attendants, 'Bind him hand and foot and cast him into the outer darkness. In that place there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.'

Maybe this explains it.

Perhaps I have Jason Giambi's potentially fatal intestinal parasite problem.

Oh, joy!

No, I haven't complete shaken Whateverthehellitis-itis.

No, there's no diagnosis yet.

 

Make Room for Daddy.

Christianity Today's indispensible weblog offers up two valuable articles on the fatherhood issue.

First is a book review of a recent work comparing the competing schools of thought regarding the role of men in marriage:  "equal regard" versus "male headship" (neither of which, as it turns out, is a completely accurate description of the viewpoints, but hey). 

As one who falls more or less into the latter camp, the debate looks thought and worthwhile, given this lengthy sample from the review:

 Co-editor David Blankenhorn sets up the problem. Blankenhorn, who advocates for fatherhood in a father-impoverished culture, recalls interviewing a group of African-American Pentecostal women at their church on the south side of Chicago. He asked the women, "Is the father the head of the family?" They all said yes. When he asked them what that meant, they said, "Working hard to support the family financially … leading the family in prayer at meal times … and … taking the family to church on Sundays." Blankenhorn pressed them: Aren't women capable of leadership? They smiled knowing smiles back at him. Of course they could do all the things they wanted men to do, they patiently explained. But they want men as heads of families because the "alternative is drugs, prison, and early death. That's the choice that our men must make, and we praise God for those who make the right choice."
Blankenhorn calls the appeal of these Chicago women the best argument he has heard for male headship in marriage. But in doing so, he shifts the meaning of the term, and headship becomes code for responsibility.
Don Browning, a second co-editor of the book, argues against notions of male headship. He recognizes that one of great social achievements of Christianity and Judaism has been the "stabilizing of male responsibility and giving it sacred meaning." But he argues that Southern Baptists and the Promise Keepers are wrong in believing that "a little soft patriarchy is the price to be paid for male responsibility."
Browning briefly pits Ephesians against Aristotle to show that early Christian ideas for ordering households were significantly out of step with prevailing Hellenic notions of male headship. He characterizes the early Christian view as "equal regard," meaning "both husband and wife treat each other as equals—as persons—and never as means to other ends, i.e. as objects of manipulation." This relational framework means that the equal-regard advocates in this book do not come across as ideologues committed to an abstract ideal, but as scholars concerned for healthy marriages.
Browning thus sets the stage for Van Leeuwen, the book's third co-editor, to set forth her argument that "'proof-text poker'… betrays a very low view" of Scripture because it treats distinct passages as factoids rather than as parts of a "redemptive-historical flow." Here Van Leeuwen sketches the views she set out more thoroughly in her 1990 book, Gender and Grace, that male domination is an effect of the Fall and should not be read back into creation (or, presumably, projected forward into the economy of salvation).
Fortunately, pro-headship author Robert Godfrey rises above proof-text poker. Godfrey points to the representative nature of the head of a family, tribe, or nation in biblical thinking. This is an anti-modern notion, but it reflects the reality that people exist in webs of relationships that provide their identity. Without rediscovering the representative role of the head person, we cannot understand biblical discussions of salvation, church life, or family life.
John Miller, emeritus professor at Conrad Grebel College, begins the book's second half by asking: Can a gendered problem (male irresponsibility) be cured by a degendered solution (equal regard)? There is an instinctual rightness to Miller's challenge. But because of Van Leeuwen's essay, the challenge is misplaced. In her hands, "equal regard" is clearly not degendered. Each sex has its own particular temptations to overcome in order to work out the meaning of Christian love in the context of marriage.

The second article is a brief interview with the magnificent Maggie Gallagher, who continues to radiate common sense:

I don't know that I would see male headship as the primary strategy. But I firmly believe that mothers and fathers both matter a great deal to their children, and that marriage is the way that you get that for children. You cannot raise a generation of men to be good family men unless you tell them that husbands and fathers matter a great deal.
One of the things sociologist Brad Wilcox shows is that conservative Protestants, who are the only group of people actively advocating for male headship in our society and for a strong vision of gender difference, oddly enough turn out to produce husbands and fathers who are more like the "new man," that is, a warm, engaged, attentive father. And their wives report that these men are also more appreciative, and the wives are happier than the average wife or the wives of religiously unaffiliated men. This is true only for conservative Protestants who go to church. If you're a nominal conservative Protestant and you just pick up on the headship ideology and you don't have the idea of love and sacrifice for the sake of your family, it turns out badly.

The Incredible Vanishing Protestant.

According to a new survey, Protestants are no longer (in aggregate) America's largest religious group.

Right off, the definition involves a rather bizarre definition of the group, too:

Smith's study includes in the "Protestant'' camp all post-Reformation Christian groups -- including fast-growing movements like the Mormon church, Pentecostalism and the Jehovah's Witnesses.

Pentacostals, sure--but Mormons and JWs?  Both would balk, methinks.  And rightfully so.

Much whistling past the graveyard ensues:

Protestants contacted Tuesday by The Chronicle reacted with neither surprise nor dismay.
"Plenty of us are alive and well,'' said the Rev. Jim Burklo, the pastor at Sausalito Presbyterian Church, which still finds from 70 to 80 people sitting in its pews on a typical Sunday.

'Tis but a scratch.

Meanwhile, officials at the Manhattan-based National Council of Churches, a longtime bastion of American Protestantism, appeared unflustered by the latest news of their decline.
"We don't worry about it," said Pat Pattillo, the director of communications for the Protestant and Orthodox Christian ecumenical agency that still counts nearly 50 million members in its member denominations.
"Mainline Protestants have always been very involved in American life," Pattillo said, "and are still very active."
 
We'll call it a draw. 
 
I'll gnaw your legs off.
 
"We don't worry about it."  Hard to be "very involved" when there are fewer and fewer of you every year, don't you think?

In less controversial news.

Well-preserved shipwreck found in Lake Superior.

Great Lakes is a misnomer--they are freshwater seas.

Here is a good--perhaps nearly complete--listing of Great Lakes shipwrecks. Here's a much less comprehensive list from a diver's website, including a few pictures from his dives.

The worst ever? The Eastland Disaster, where a ship carrying over 2500 Western Electric employees on a picnic excursion foundered just off Chicago, killing 812 people in 1915.

The most famous, of course, remains the S.S. Edmund Fitzgerald, immortalized by Gordon Lightfoot, lost with all hands in the brutal November 1975 storm. Also rightly immortalized is the Mariners' Church, which is worth a visit if you're in these parts.

The best book on the subject is by diver Frederick Stonehouse. Especially worthwhile is Stonehouse's highlighting of the heroism of the crews of the other ships in the area, especially those of the Arthur Anderson and William Clay Ford (yes, Lions fans, named for that WCF) who went into the teeth of the gale in an effort to search for survivors.

Other Uses for Potassium Chloride.
 
As commenter Seamus points out, it's the "killer" drug in the lethal injection cocktail, and a rather unpleasant one at that.
 
Very unpleasant indeed.
 
Good thing the globs of cells don't feel anything.
 
 
 
 

Amy's Choice.

In the East Village of Manhattan lives one Ms. Amy Richards. She is a writer and lecturer who decided that she was a little too pregnant for her hip lifestyle.

Me in blue, hers/as told to in italics. [It's a bit more chopped up than usual, and I leave sections out, as noted with * * *.]

I grew up in a working-class family in Pennsylvania not knowing my father. I have never missed not having him. I firmly believe that, but for much of my life I felt that what I probably would have gained was economic security and with that societal security. * * *

Actually what happened is that Ms. Amy bought into the myth of the DisposaDad, a marginal figure who appears for dinner, grunts a lot and falls asleep in front of televised sports before returning to his place of underemployment the next day. It's a very popular myth in enlightened academic circles/ruts like the ones she travels in. It's also a grotesque lie, as this essay demonstrates. As becomes painfully clear, she desperately missed having a loving father, a fact that will haunt her, her child and her succession of inadequate male companions to their graves.

Also, this opening narrative seems like an irrelevant detail, but All Becomes Clear later, trust me.

The upshot: by her own admission trying to have a child with her hapless boyfriend, she suddenly found herself pregnant with three.

My immediate response was, I cannot have triplets. I was not married; I lived in a five-story walk-up in the East Village; I worked freelance; and I would have to go on bed rest in March. I lecture at colleges, and my biggest months are March and April. I would have to give up my main income for the rest of the year. There was a part of me that was sure I could work around that. But it was a matter of, Do I want to? * * *

Does she or doesn't she?

Oh, come on--if the previous three paragraphs haven't given it away already, Ms. Amy makes damn sure to let you know that It's All About Her. Extra credit available for anyone who can find a shred of a "health" reason for her decision, too.

I looked at Peter and asked the doctor: ''Is it possible to get rid of one of them? Or two of them?'' * * *

That's her reaction to the ultrasound. The pictures of the squirming life in her womb. Not "How are they?" or "Are they boys or girls?"

Nope: it's "Can I get rid of one or more?"

Everyone should get slapped in the face by pure malicious evil at least once per month as a reminder that such exists. Enjoy the sting.

Minor note: Interesting how Ms. Amy nicely sidelined Flavor of the Year/ImpoDad, eh? To his minor credit, he later makes a Whipple-esque plea for his flesh and blood ("Please don't off the children!"). But the kids still get squeezed by potassium chloride, alas.

I give them another year, tops. Which is probably for the best. The quicker Ms. Amy's biological clock runs out, the better.

On the subway, Peter asked, ''Shouldn't we consider having triplets?'' And I had this adverse reaction: ''This is why they say it's the woman's choice, because you think I could just carry triplets. That's easy for you to say, but I'd have to give up my life.'' Not only would I have to be on bed rest at 20 weeks, I wouldn't be able to fly after 15. I was already at eight weeks. When I found out about the triplets, I felt like: It's not the back of a pickup at 16, but now I'm going to have to move to Staten Island. I'll never leave my house because I'll have to care for these children. I'll have to start shopping only at Costco and buying big jars of mayonnaise. Even in my moments of thinking about having three, I don't think that deep down I was ever considering it. * * *

Choice™ in Action!

Sorry, kids, but here's the bottom line: Because Mommy can't bear to shop at warehouse stores or live in unfashionable neighborhoods next to people whose work actually contributes to society (remember that despised working class upbringing?) , two-thirds of you are getting snuffed.

And, uh, no--adoption is no option. That's another unfashionable practice that nobody else in the Village does.

I had just finished watching a Boston Pops concert at Symphony Hall. As everybody burst into applause, I watched my cellphone vibrating, grabbed it and ran into the lobby. He told me that he does a detailed sonogram before doing a selective reduction to see if one fetus appears to be struggling. The procedure involves a shot of potassium chloride to the heart of the fetus. There are a lot more complications when a woman carries multiples. And so, from the doctor's perspective, it's a matter of trying to save the woman this trauma. After I talked to the specialist, I told Peter, ''That's what I'm going to do.'' He replied, ''What we're going to do.'' He respected what I was going through, but at a certain point, he felt that this was a decision we were making. I agreed. * * *

Abortion: Saving the Woman the Trauma of Buying 50 Ounce Jars of Hellman's. Or Missing Boston Pops Concerts.

And I love the fact that Peter manfully stepped up to the plate and cheeped "Me, too" after Ms. Amy made the decision. How nice: they're sharing the experience. Would that he had had the stones to interpose an objection.

I guess by the essay's standards, Russell Yates would have been a better dad if he'd stayed in the trailer bathroom while Andrea practiced selective reduction.

When we saw the specialist, we found out that I was carrying identical twins and a stand alone. My doctors thought the stand alone was three days older. There was something psychologically comforting about that, since I wanted to have just one. Before the procedure, I was focused on relaxing. But Peter was staring at the sonogram screen thinking: Oh, my gosh, there are three heartbeats. I can't believe we're about to make two disappear. The doctor came in, and then Peter was asked to leave. I said, ''Can Peter stay?'' The doctor said no. I know Peter was offended by that. * * *

Sophie's Choice would have been a rather different story with Ms. Amy Richards in the lead role. I suspect even the SS officer would have been a little chilled by her resolve under identical circumstances.

BTW, Peter--you were offended by the wrong thing, boyo. But at least you get to keep the girl.

For now.

I had a boy, and everything is fine. But thinking about becoming pregnant again is terrifying. Am I going to have quintuplets? I would do the same thing if I had triplets again, but if I had twins, I would probably have twins. Then again, I don't know.

"Everything is fine." Untruer words were never spoken. And I share the terror of you becoming pregnant again.

As to your willingness to have potassium chloride injected into the hearts of your unborn children again, I have but this to say as to your new line-drawing:

You already had the chance to have twins.

Ten Random Thoughts from a Lost Week,
Or
Medical Mutterings.
 
First, thanks for all of the prayers and kind thoughts.  Much appreciated from here, let me tell you.  Today was the first day I've felt something approximating myself, albeit with certain...episodic...limitations.
 
Now to the random thoughts that have passed (!) through my capacious, uncrowded cranium over the last week.

1. Gatorade is our friend.
2. Chinese food--even good Chinese food--is not our friend.  You're better off just tossing the carton directly into the commode.
3. Imodium is not a miracle drug.  Analogy?  Trying to stop a monsoon with a 12-gauge.
4. This is not quality reading time.
5. In house descriptions, the difference between one bath and 1 and 1/2 baths is much, much more momentous than the fraction would indicate.
6. You make a hell of a lot more than me, buddy--you collect the @#$#ing sample, doc.
7. You know, brown rice sure looks a lot less appetizing than I remember.
8.  Maddie, this is a bad time to work on a dad impression--get off the toilet and read later.
9. There are headaches that make me want to be a guillotine tester.  Sweet, sweet bliss.
10. Never, ever, ever--in this world or the next--offer me a Squirt.

Hiawatha's Revenge.

According to my doctor, 90 percent of the wells/aquifers in northern lower Michigan are just fine.

I may have found one of the 10 percent that is less fine. It may be a bug called giardia [phonetic]. My blood tests came back negative for anything serious (I'm fighting off some kind of infection, from the white cell count), but they decided to draw more to rule out the possibility of West Nile virus (I was bitten by mosquitos helping Dad put in our new and improved hunting blinds on Sunday).

Yay!

I've spent last night and today contemplating the transient nature of the food and juice in my digestive system (he said delicately). The temp spiked to 103.5 last night, but was fortunately knocked down by ibuprofen. I've had minimal energy and periodic chill attacks. Doc recommended Immodium and lots of fluids.

A nap sounds good right now.

Prayers would also be much appreciated.

And here's my news link of the day, which must be sending Bill Swerski's Super Fans into chest pains of delight: Mike Ditka is contemplating a run for the U.S. Senate.

Back from the family vacation at 26 Pines.

Which is what I refer to as the Price Family Summer Palace, a/k/a "The Cottage."

The 26P comes from the fact that there are 26 pine trees on the lot, which is approximately 3/4 of an acre in size. Not one of the trees is less than 20 feet tall, and they grow like weeds every year.

Makes me think there's something wrong with the septic tank.

Regardless, much fun was had by all, and my nearly three year old daughter is now a jet ski fanatic. Needless to say, Daddy didn't have it running full out with the eldest on board--"full out" being 65 mph (no lie).

Jet skis: loud, dangerous and obnoxious. Unless you're riding one.

[I've always thought Wayne Gretzky should operate a chain of Sea-doo/Bombardier dealerships, for obvious reasons.]

I'll have more detail later, but I've seem to come down with a bug of some kind--I woke up at 4am with a case of the chills, which took forty five minutes to banish. After I woke up, I had a bad case of the sweats, and I've still got the aches and have approximately squat for energy--I move like I've got lead shackles on.

Free diagnosis appreciated.

Emerging from my cave, I see the Dems are offering us Thurston/Ginger 2004.

Someone enlighten me: for candidate selection purposes, the difference between Dan Quayle and John Edwards is what, precisely?

We have two young, obscure pretty-boy one-term Senators with background, experience and legislative records that could charitably be described as "thin."

But for some reason, the media caned the former and is in the midst of an extended tongue bath for the latter.

I wonder....





...not at all.

Posting will continue to be scattershot for a while.

Everyone needs a vacation.

Especially me.

In the meantime, ponder this from Bishop William "My Kingdom for a Definite Article!" Skylstad.

Also ponder the fact that he will almost certainly be the next factotum for the USCCB. Try to remember at least a small measure of charity. After all, the Bishop is correct to remind us that God loves "the confused," too.

I'll examine this at greater length later.

"He said ominously."