Authorities recommend major metropolitan area be provisionally removed from 24 hour suicide watch.

Memo to Tomas Vokoun--remember: You're Tomas frigging Vokoun, not Patty Roy (thank you, Don Cherry).

In other words, to quote Dr. Evil: "Zip it!"

Whew. On to round two, against...I'm hoping not the Avs. The Winged Wheelers have never beaten Colorado in the second round.

For some worthwhile analysis of the NHL playoffs from a Canadian political columnist, of all things, try Colby Cosh's NHL page. One warning, Wing fans--he really doesn't like our team, using terms more applicable to a hater of the evil, evil NY Yankees than our lads. But he's smart enough to give credit where it was due. Also, he's an occasional deployer of inappropriate language--not Slap Shot bad, but it's there.

In other sports news: it appears the Pistons are ready for the playoffs. The only reason I kept watching was to see Darko get in. I sold my wife on the necessity of seeing such a thing, in the midst of a 20+ point blowout.

Anybody else getting the impression that he's a 21st century Chuck Nevitt? Actually, that's not fair to Nevitt, as he didn't come into the league with hype, nor did he develop into a whiner.

A Lament for the Democrats.

Mark Sullivan mourns the party of Roosevelt, Truman, and Henry "Scoop" Jackson:

I believe the Democrats today would be hard to beat if they were strong on defense, championed America and freedom on the world stage, looked out for the little guy, and maintained at least a residual respect for the moral and religious values of Main Street America – in short, if it returned to being the Democratic Party of FDR, Harry Truman, JFK and Scoop Jackson.

Speaking as someone raised in roots-Republican rural Michigan, I have to agree. I think that Republican success in the past 35 years is largely due to dumb luck--the Democrats misplayed an unbeatable hand. In 1968, the bolsheviks began to storm the party's bastions, and by 1972, they'd succeeded. With the exception of the Carter hiccups, they managed to alienate most of the electorate with an agenda seemingly calculated to alienate the people we now call "Reagan Democrats." For the second time in their often-noble history, the Dems are on the wrong side of a fundamental human rights issue, again denying the full humanity of an entire group of people; this time, their own children.

Not that the Republicans are any prize, though. Even in my youth (he says, marvelling at the amount of gray culled during every visit to the barber), the quintessential Republican was the aproned shopkeeper or yeoman farmer, a decent play-by-the-rules fellow who was a full member of the community and wanted what was best for it--even if it didn't give him the best bottom line. The Democrats in my neck of the woods growing up were Larouchies or hard-leftist malcontents engaged in an experiment to see how few votes could be obtained by one party on a two candidate ballot.

The community-mined approach I grew up with is increasingly not the mindset of the national party. That party is the "Just Win, Baby!" force of the corporations, but at the same time also the shrugging libertarian invoker of the invisible hand of the market as the healer of all ills. Lest we forget, this is the same free market whose corporations sell Pink, Britney, Nelly and thongs to preteens (take a look at your local high school to see the downstream effect). The party that celebrates outsourcing like a sacrament. The party happy to jettison the embarrassing religious types at the drop of an electoral hat (hint--great idea, if you relish being a perpetual minority party).

They retain my loyalty increasingly because they are less appalling than the Democrats, not necessarily because they are the friends of me and my family or have our best interests in mind. On the other hand, the Dems' stiff arm gets a little longer every year.

You people are obviously starstruck by my brilliance.

That's the only explanation for why the comment boxes are filled with the buzz of crickets.

Ah, nothing like living the deluded life....

Updates on candidate whatsisface.

1. Looks like that American Spectator rumor about a staged confrontation by Kerry using the Mass was total crap.
Say what you will about the Senator, he seems to be doing the opposite, carefully avoiding a confrontation at all costs (ignore the goofball focus on refighting the Reformation). If there was anyplace he could have tried the purported stunt, it would have been St. Louis, where Abp. Burke called him out by name.

Didn't do it, though, did he? Same thing on Easter in Boston, where he went to the New-Agey Paulist Center instead of a parish of the Archdiocese.

None of this makes me like the guy much, but it sure makes me skeptical of the Spectator from here on in.

2. Abp. McCarrick, the subject of a pounding supra, is meeting with the Senator today. So much for the soulful "that's not up to me" Stay-Puf-ery he fed the MSNBC columnist. Perhaps his spine is made of something other than lime Jell-O after all. This bears close watching, and I'd be happy to eat my words mixed with Gravy Train if something comes of it.

Liturgical Music Complaint Post MMCMLII.

I joined another organization--what a surprise.

Mr. Gilleland expressed surprise at the explosion of interest. I'm not--for most of the members, it's a weekly phenomenon, occurring at the "source and summit" of our life as Catholics. I'm going to avoid my usual tactful approach ("Incoming!") , which provokes the usual response ("write your own!"). I also won't go into whether the stuff is "heretical" or not--a fruitless endeavor that is really pretty well stymied by the frothingly artsy poetic ambiguity of the ditties in question. Usually you can put an orthodox spin on most of it, albeit with with heavy parenthetical annotations:

I myself [In a wholly derivative and secondary sense related to our individual membership in the mystical body of Christ, the ultimate Bread of Life--ed.] am the Bread of Life/
You and I [See above note]/
Are the Bread of Life...

OR

All are welcome, all are welcome, all are welcome in this place. [Indeed, the Church embraces all sinners, though we are compelled to advise you that you are not welcome to take the Eucharist if you're coming here directly from a bordello without confession and are looking forward to the hit you have to perform this afternoon--Ed.]

Consequently, the heretical charge is a taffy pull, basically, and a battle not worth fighting.

Instead, I think the main problem is different: the music emphasizes only one aspect of the Mass, and completely obscures the other. Yes, the mass is indeed a meal--we go up to eat and drink, after all--just like Christ said. So complaints that go after that aspect of the Mass are, in one real sense, a non-starter.

But, there is another aspect to the Mass--the concept that it is the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, the re-presentation of the Sacrifice on Calvary, at which all participants in the Mass are somehow mystically present. It is in conveying this mystery that the lot of modern Catholic liturgical music fails utterly.

One of my wife's friends at the parish is a member of the Mom's Club. The recent subject of discussion was That Gibson Film. In speaking about it with Heather, she said she had never even made the connection between the Mass and the Cross. Sure, some of it can be chalked up to being another member of the Lost Catechetical Generation, like my wife and others of her age. Even leaving that aside, though, she's been a faithful Mass-goer her entire life--but the way it has been celebrated has successfully hidden that connection from her--until now.

Part of that has to be the music--all celebratory and community centered. Indeed, as Heather pointed out, the modern music fits what happened at Calvary about as well as the People's Front of Judea singing For He's A Jolly Good Fellow at the end of The Life of Brian.

Always look on the bright side of life, indeed. Post-Vatican II Catholic liturgical music does nothing but.

Try imagining Haugen or Haas meditating on the precious blood or the body broken for us, or the stripes by which we are healed--nope, I can't do it either. Ditto Conry, Hurd, Dufner, Norbet, the St. Louis Jesuits, etc.

That is the great failing of Catholic music, and another example of the cross-shaped hole in our spirituality and worship for the past two generations.

Too bad it has to be filled by a movie.

I have joined the Conspiracy...

...the Vast Conservative Anglican Conspiracy, that is.

I now even have the mug to prove it (thanks, Chris!). It's holding the java quite nicely this morning.

"But you're Catholic...." you say.

Yes. Just proves how vast the Conspiracy is, now, doesn't it?

Another Entry in the Devil's Dictionary for Faithful Catholics.


PASTORAL

SYLLABICATION: pas·tor·al
PRONUNCIATION: pass-tore-l.
ADJECTIVE: 1a. Of or relating to a pastor or the duties of a pastor: pastoral duties; a pastoral letter; 1b. A term often used by a Catholic ordinary as an excuse for his refusal to actually perform any such duties that might involve bad publicity.

Here's another free insight, FWIW: whenever a Catholic bishop gets a rhetorical tongue bath in the secular media, he's not doing his job.

Exhibit A: this frippery on L'Affaire Kerry, featuring very special guest star Washington Cardinal Theodore McCarrick, in full bob-and-weave mode.

Ugh.

So it was a relief to hear Cardinal Theodore McCarrick of Washington respond with a pastoral voice on the Kerry issue.

I'm really, really, really beginning to hate that word. Fun thought experiment: Every time you see it used in conjunction with a bishop's inaction on a scandalous issue, try replacing it with "retiring," "diffident," "timorous," or even "pathetic." It's very instructive.

I mean, by the same token, Bernard Cardinal Law's handling of Paul Shanley could also be called "pastoral."

McCarrick is heading a U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops task force on how to handle Catholic politicians who support abortion rights.

Which will get back to you on the issue around the same time they decide to refer that whole "plenary council" idea to the USCCB's Joint Episcopal Subcommittee For Furled Brow Dithering (interestingly enough, the JESFFBD shares an office with the Ministry of Silly Walks).

Hell, they'll probably refer it to the same subcommittee. Whoopsie!

In an empty meeting room at St. Matthew’s in downtown D.C., where the cardinal led a prayer service last Wednesday, he pulled a couple of dusty folding chairs down from a stack so we’d have someplace to sit while we talked. When I asked about Kerry’s standing, he seemed pained by the idea of turning him, or anyone else, away. “I would find it hard to use the Eucharist as a sanction,” he said gently.

Uh, ever heard of excommunication? Oh, that's right--communion is a civil right for the Easter People these days--a symbol of our surface unity despite the fact some of us refuse to believe "that crap" anymore. It's like getting your driver's licen--oh, wait: they revoke that when you maim somebody with your Buick. OK, bad analogy. Um, it's like the right to vote--oh, they'll yank that if you commit a felony, too.

Oh, forget it--it's the great big agape table--Josh didn't have any standards, so why should we? What the hell--next time I'm in DC, I'm going to let my freak flag fly at the good ol' eucharistic celebration!

"You don’t know what’s in anyone’s heart when they come before you. It’s important that everyone know what our principles are, but you’d have to be very sure someone had a malicious intent [before denying him communion.]”

Technically true, but it nicely ignores the fact that while you can't read hearts, you can judge actions. And unrestricted abortion has had no better friend in this country than John Forbes Kerry. Just check the voting record and full-throated endorsements. I mean, what does Kerry have to do here--walk up to the rail wearing a T-shirt that says "I LUV Dr. Carhart" showing a picture of the bad doctor working briskly at his Mengelesque finest?

Or does the Abp. perhaps suspect that Sen. Kerry suffers from some defect in intention--i.e., JFK's barking mad?

McCarrick is surprisingly humble, and a reluctant judge.

"And the winner of our 2004 Strange New Respect Award goes to...."

Alas, however: It's not true. Abp. McCarrick is a swift and stern judge of perceived orthodoxy--when the issue is important to him. Consider this effort to lay down the law concerning a Catholic sportsmen's raffle at a Washington parish in 2003:

[The head of the sportsmen's group] set out to do something about the tattered uniforms of Catholic Youth Organization sports teams. An ordinary raffle might raise $100. But Hyattsville is not far from the Prince George's County Trap and Skeet Center, where gun enthusiasts practice and take lessons. A fundraiser there, with a gun giveaway, might get the kids the support they need.

* * *

The cardinal decided that the sportsmen's group could raise money for St. Jerome's only if the events are not "related in any way to the use or sale of guns."

See? He can set boundaries!

“It’s between the person and God,’’ he said.

Unless icky guns and gun owners are involved. Then he waves the interdict. But, since this just involves a possible Catholic president whose career has helped ensure that the obliteration of human life in the womb is legal at any point during the pregnancy--well, no big whoop. By the way, your eminence: my firearms have killed fewer people (zero) than the abortion doctors John Kerry supports (40,000,000).

Should Kerry or someone in his campaign seek counsel on Catholic protocol? “What they do,’’ he demurred, “is really their business and not mine.’’

Unless the Senator decides to have a gun raffle. Then all bets are off!

No, really--this is the nadir of the Abp's presentation. It's not merely the waffling, the pastoral dodging and so forth--here, the Cardinal goes way beyond in the Surrender Sweepstakes: Not only will he not offer the Senator any counsel on the issue, he says he won't answer the phone if Kerry calls.

Yes, "pathetic" is the best substitute word here. Far from being a recognition of the weakness of the Church following the scandals, it is the continuation of the same gutless bureaucratic mindset.

Shame on him.

The archdiocese has gotten some calls on the subject from rank-and-file Catholics, but he declined to characterize the faithful as a monolith: “Obviously, we run the spectrum in the Catholic Church, from people who feel very annoyed with their politicians to those who are very supportive.’’

Sounds like you've got a fine catechetical department there. The confusion of your flock mirrors that of their shepherd.

On a concluding note: I was in Washington for a conference in August 2002. The conference lasted a week, and the Assumption fell during the middle of it. I had to decide whether to go to a parish in Washington or Arlington. By a quirk of timing, I ended up going to St. Ann's in Arlington.

Thank God.

Actually, they are heroes, Mr. Rooney.

I saw this yesterday, and nearly composed a profanity-laced tirade. As in paint-peeling, f-bomb heavy, hide-the-children-he's-at-it-again material.

It will remain in my head. Fortunately. Apart from the title, it's actually not the worst thing I've read on the subject.

So, instead I'll post a gentler rebuttal.

My brother Doug is a hero.

Period. And so are his buddies.

He joined the Army National Guard for reasons that were never completely clear to anyone but himself. But he remained in it until early 2001, getting an honorable discharge. He was married then, and it cut into his time with his wife and two young children.

Then 19 men hijacked four airliners and killed 3000 Americans. My brother re-upped. He spent six months "guarding" the Blue Water Bridge at Port Huron with his Michigan National Guard unit until the Customs Service had new personnel in place. Mostly, he took (and occasionally returned) verbal abuse from Quebecois truckers, and was speechless at the amount of porn coming over from the Great White North. That, and it was tedious.

But at least it kept him away from his family for all but a weekend a month. [Note for the sarcasm-impaired--that was sarcasm.]

However, it provided the opportunity to make contacts with the local head of Customs in Port Huron, who was impressed with his performance and recommended he apply to become an inspector.

Doug applied and was accepted.

He almost didn't go. You see, he would have to be away--completely, as in phone contact only--from his family for four months. First, he had to go to his future duty station in Tacoma, Washington, for an initial orientation, and then down to Georgia for federal law enforcement training.

He called his big brother for advice. I told him to go for it. Yes, it would be hard, but it was a great opportunity to have the law enforcement career he'd always wanted, and the promotion opportunities were second to none.

I don't know if my advice was any kind of cincher, but he went. I really hope not, because as a result of his new career, Doug had to transfer to a unit of the Washington National Guard--the 81st Armored Brigade, based out of Ft. Lewis. The long and short of it is, Doug's former Michigan unit is going to Cuba, and the 81st is in Iraq.

Doug didn't have long to acclimate to his Washington company, but he did with flying colors--antagonizing the REMFs and making friends with the good guys. It was like he'd been with them the whole time. We spent three hours talking about the guys, and there isn't an obvious Audie Murphy in the bunch (then again, Audie wasn't obviously hero material, either). There are shirkers and sticklers, braggers and doers, sharpshooters and guys who are lucky to have feet--pretty much the template of every American army since the Revolution--albeit probably a lot more multi-hued than the guys at Valley Forge could ever have imagined. There's a "big" Samoan (read "big even by Samoan standards") who can one-hand sixty-pound rucksacks long after everyone else is in traction. There's a quiet black NCO who's Sgt. Rock with more melanin (that's a good thing, for those of you not raised on "GI Combat" comics), and the white company prankster who hasn't been fragged because he's consistently hilarious--and good at what he does, to boot.

Did any of them want to go to Iraq? Well, Doug didn't. I can't imagine more than a fistful were actually eager for the opportunity. He certainly didn't mention any. That's what being a citizen soldier is all about--they have jobs and lives outside of Fort Lewis, after all. But not one of them imagined high-tailing it up to British Columbia, either. That's just not what a man does.

Do they understand the ins and outs of the situation in which they have found themselves? Probably not, and certainly not fully--who does? If they do, they'd be the first American army to do so. Lt. Ulysses Grant hated the Mexican War--flatly called it unjust--but went anyway. The Civil War found Billy Yanks and Johnny Rebs grousing about "Mr. Lincoln's War" or "Mr. Davis' War." The war with Spain--why do we need the Phillipines? World War I? Let Europe solve its own problems. World War II--why are we fighting the Germans again? Where is Korea? Vietnam and dominoes? Kuwait--fighting for a sandbar? What's a "Bosnia," anyway?

So Mr. Rooney's five questions would have gotten exactly the same responses in every war America has fought. Remember that Bill Mauldin's "Willie and Joe" emerged in World War II despite a heavy rotation of Capra's "Why We Fight." ["Gimme th' aspirin--I've already got a Purple Heart."]

But, like those who went overseas before them, they went anyway. They serve. They work hard. They live in crappy conditions (just got working AC two weeks ago). They even get along OK with the locals--more or less.

Most importantly, they are in harm's way.

They are no different from any other American army to embark from our shores. All of that is why, just like the troops before them, they are heroes, Mr. Rooney. If Doug and his comrades are not heroes, then none of their predecessors were, either.

And I won't buy that--not at any price.

[Remember these men and their families in your prayers tonight. And pray that the rest come home safely.]

From my family to yours: Have a Blessed Triduum!

Blogging will be especially sparse over the next few days--although Saturday will likely open up somewhat. We'll see.

This is pretty well how Dale and his daughter's morning starts, too.

With much the same sentiments.

Lileks, on target as usual:

Put paper away. Turn on the TV so Gnat can watch the lugubrious “Dragon Tales,” in which big-headed moppets consort with dragons who can fly despite the obvious insufficiency of their wingspans. It’s all scored with oboe and bassoon and flute, and the music sounds like the bowels of some rich Roman who dined on goat brains and lark thyroid. Every day I hope the show will revolve around the death of the dragons due to some horrible intestinal parasite the moppets bring from their world; every morning I am disappointed.

RTWT.

It is just me, or...

...does Barry Trotz, the Predators' coach, look like a Soviet agricultural minister, or what?

I half-expect him to say something like "Rye harvest better next year after get new tractors to farm" at the postgame press conferences.