On Arial

My problem with Arial is not one of fins or flippers – that’s Ariel the little mermaid.

I have no problem with Ariel Bender. I think I had the hots for him when I was a kid. It’s hard to remember the early 70’s. I have no problem with the Ariel the Archangel, either.

I have no problem with Ariel, a moon of Uranus. Maybe a bit of a problem with Ariel Sharon, also a moon of Uranus, but he’s incapacitated so I’ll leave him alone.

No, my problem is with Arial the font. And I really wouldn’t mind it too much except I’m told that I must use it, am required to use, at work. For more than you will ever want to know about Arial the font see the link.

http://www.ms-studio.com/articles.html

Easter Sunday

I was having a time of it trying to write something for Easter, but nothing was right. But three paragraphs from A Confederacy of Dunces seem to fit. I didn’t get to ask for permission yet, please don’t report me to the copyright police.

     “I read Father Keller and Billy Graham in the paper every single day.”

     “Oh, my God!" Ignatius spluttered. “No wonder you are so lost.”

     “Here,” the old man said... “Put this on.”

A note on the font. First paragraph is Lucinda Grande, a sporty little font full of piss and vinegar. The conversational font is trebuchet, mostly because it sound like it could be from New Orleans - you  know over by that place that they cook the sugar baked ham. Tomorrow, it's back to dusty Arial for me.

Holy Saturday

During one of my periodic unsuccessful attempts to re-enter Catholicism I decided to go to confession on Holy Saturday and then Easter Mass.

 Small problem: I was defiant and resentful when I went into the confessional. I recognized the priest as Father Bill – retired from St. Louis, MO (pun intended) and an acquaintance of mine. He did not recognize me.

 He opened the little door. I said something like, “I want you to know I don’t really think this going to do much good.” Very gently he asked if I had any sins to confess? I laid my sins out and expected to get the usual three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys.

 Instead he granted absolution and said, “for your penance, be extra good to your mom this Easter.” 

I had been to confession at least a thousand times before in my life so I wasn’t expecting much. Instead, I found solace and a sense of gratitude.

Bill died last year. I’m glad that I told him several times over the years that he was the best confessor I ever had. And he always reacted with surprised delight.   

Good Friday

Ok, so I bought the sausage biscuits for Betty without moral qualms: I didn’t eat meat today. As an added bonus God arranged for the counter person at McDonald’s to put in an extra hash browns for free. That I ate.

I had been baptized and had my First Holy Communion (always referred to as such by a Catholic, lapsed or otherwise, of my age) pre-Vatican II so my formative years included no meat on Friday and certainly not on Good Friday. This year I tried to be mindful not to eat meat on Fridays during Lent and was mostly successful.

As a kid, Friday night supper was Mrs. Paul’s fish sticks, Kraft macaroni and cheese, or Campbell’s cream of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. I didn’t eat Kraft for 10 years after leaving my mother’s house and still don’t do Mrs. Paul’s.

Some of my happiest childhood memories are of being in church with my mother on First Fridays. I can still she her face while looking at The Virgin, a look of true devotion and tranquility. And I’ve got to say that even though I don’t believe what the church teaches (the rules and regs of it anyway) I truly resent how the hierarchy betrayed the trust of the people.

I don’t think Jesus died so that the ecclesiastical power structure could maintain itself. 

Maundy Thursday

News Flash! Blue-eyed Jesus spotted on WTBN, Channel 21, quoting from the Gospel according to John. The eyes were a deep ocean blue set off by pale skin and rosy cheeks. His faces was framed by only-slightly-wavy shoulder-length brown hair. Barely a chance of Mediterranean blood, let alone Semitic or African. 

These Blue-eyed Jesuses all seem to come from The Lake Distict, Copenhagen, or Sweden. (Although on WTBN everyone is two or three shades lighter than on any other station, religious or otherwise.) Still...those nagging rumors about the Somali connection.

I'm told Anthony Quinn will be making an appearance soon as Barabbas. No chance of recessive eye genes there (though I've been fooled before).

The great Good Friday quandry is: Do I break my fast if I pick up a sausage bisquit at McDonald's for Betty the receptionist? 

Here, Put This On!

Lefty’s Bar, 1980. I see a cute dark-haired guy, a bit shorter then me with a nice build. Our eyes meet and the next thing I know we’re in his apartment. Just as we were getting to it I hear him say to me, “here, put this on.”

It was a bathing suit, a red Speedo if I remember correctly. I was nothing if not accommodating in the 80’s so I put it on. In quick succession he had me doing costume changes into a variety of bathing suits, board shorts, and briefs. I started to figure out that he had a fetish.

In those days I didn’t know that I could just walk out so I did more costume changes until he had seen enough to cum. "That was weird," I thought to myself as I left.

About a year later I was in Lefty’s and met this hot man. A little shorter than me, olive skin, short beard, and a black cowboy hat. I was in a Bat Masterson kind of mood and soon after we were back at his apartment.

It was kind of a weird set-up. Two bunk beds built out of 2 x 4’s and plywood. Lot’s of clothes on racks all over the place. He had the bottom bunk and someone (his roommate?) was in the top bunk already asleep.

We climbed into the bottom bunk and started making out. Suddenly, he thrust a bathing suit at me, “here, put this on.” Oh my god! I didn’t recognize him at the bar, but I figured: I’m here. I know the drill.

Only he had gotten weirder with the passage of time. And unfortunately I still hadn’t learned I could just walk away. He finally got off after wrapping my crotch in about three yards of shrink wrap (kind of ironic for pre-AIDS Ft. Lauderdale).

Moral of the story: If you can’t recognize a trick after one year’s absence, it’s time to get a steady boyfriend.