When I was back in college,
I took six long hours of Speech.
One of my classmates loved it,
It was preparing him to preach.
He joined the Seminary.
They gave him room and board.
He learned the secret handshake.
He was consecrated to the Lord.
He loved preaching his homilies.
He never noticed the time go by.
His parishioners would take notice.
His sermons made them cry.
It’s not that they weren’t moving,
Or his chosen words weren’t very strong.
It wasn’t even his repeated subjects.
It’s just that they were bloody long.
They called him “Father Long Words”,
But only behind his back.
They were plotting how to sneak out,
To try and find a snack.
Finally, someone called the Bishop.
They said, “He speaks too long.”
The Bishop said, “The Spirit is within him.”
The Bishop said, “Just play along.”
It took months of complaining.
But the Bishop finally heard.
He came to the Church one Sunday.
Then he said, “That is absurd.”
The Bishop heard Father Long Words,
He dozed off about half-way through.
So, he answered the cries of his people,
After snoring loudly from his pew.
The Bishop had him transferred.
Father Long Words moved around.
He would preach in a different parish,
Until that flock drove him out of town.
Everywhere he preached,
The people listened to him at first.
They listened and they listened,
Until their bladders almost burst.
The Church finally blamed Americans,
For not appreciating the Word.
Father Long Words escaped to Ecuador,
Where they knew he would be heard.
Down in Quito, Father Long Words
Entered the famous Guinness book.
He preached two hundred thirty-seven minutes,
Because that’s just how long it took.
The week after the World’s Record,
The Pope flew in from Rome.
The Church was overflowing.
No parishioners dared stay home.
Father Long Words preached two hours.
He paused for breath, and started further.
That’s when the Pope jumped up and shot him.
The police have called it a Mass murder.
(Bless me, Father, for I have sinned with this poem.)
Murphy James Gilhooly was my puppy for almost thirteen years. As much as Ripley was supposed to be my dog, Murphy was my dog. It is very difficult to say “goodbye.” However, today we had to do so.
We met Murphy after an East Lake Pet Orphanage Advisory Board meeting in early 2006. He was at least a year old at that point, but we’ll never really know, since he was adopted. The rest of the board said there was a gorgeous Cocker we just had to meet.
This should have set off warning bells.
The rest of the board assumed we would love a Cocker since we already had one, and they knew we had adopted an additional dog already. Most of them were pet fanatics, so what’s the difference between two and three dogs?
So, we went down to the adoption area to meet Java. As the staff opened his crate, a brown blur rushed out, straight into a glass window, and bounced off.
Then, he did it again.
This should have set off warning bells.
What really happened is that I thought, “This dog is so stupid, he deserves to live with us.”
I didn’t like “Java” as a name, since Java was a computer programming language I fought with every day at work, but I liked having a name that reflected his coloring. (The staff picked “Java” to mean “coffee”.) My first thought was “Guinness”, but he wouldn’t pass as an Irish Setter, so I had to find another Irish Stout. Murphy’s Stout, founded by James Murphy. So, reverse the name, and Murphy James was ready to come home.
Virginia still blames me for the adoption since I had him named before we left for home. However, this is not true because I had to get home first to look up Murphy’s Stout.
Doing laps with Katie
Murphy actually accumulated names over the years. I’m not sure how it started, but by the end, he was Murphy James Elliott Macintosh McIlhenny Molanaphy Gilhooly, Esq. Elliott is my sister-in-law’s cat (with a slightly different spelling.) Macintosh is what I am typing this on. McIlHenny is the maker of Tabasco, which Virginia requires for her eggs. Molanaphy was a classmate of mine in grade school. I think. However, Murphy was pretty sure his first name was “Dammit.”
Before the adoption could go through, we took Bubba over to meet his potential new brother and they got along fine, so we signed the paperwork and Java became Murphy. I’m still not sure Murphy ever knew Bubba was a different dog. I have a feeling he always thought Bubba was his reflection, just a different color and doing different things. Murphy was not a Rhodes scholar.
However, as much as Murphy’s intellegence has been questioned over the years, he is the only one of all of our dogs to graduate from puppy training. I’m still not sure how he did it, but he actually graduated. (They didn’t let him keep the hat.) He has a diploma (somewhere) to prove it.
Murphy drove my sister-in-law Mary crazy one visit while she was Mom and pet-sitting because he always wanted to be touching her. Most dogs want to be in proximity, but Murphy perferred direct contact. (He would sit pressed up to me on the couch.)
We had phone calls in France about “the brown one won’t stop touching me!”
That said, Murphy was the only one of our dogs Mary said she would take if something happened to us. So. maybe “annoying” eventually became “a certain charm.”
We’re not sure where Murphy actually came from – we know he began his rescue life abandoned and tied to a tree with his sister at the SPCA. He had chronic eye issues, so he was thought to be unadoptable. Luckily, East Lake Pet Orphanage took him and nursed him into shape, and then he met us – a couple who already had a dog with chronic eye issues. We knew how to do eye drops. Well, Virginia did.
Murphy had eye issues. He had allergies. He had bad skin. He blew out one of his ACLs before I blew out mine, then he blew out another one. He was basically the poster child for why breeders are often considered evil and why pure-breds are not always better. He had every issue Cockers were known to have. He had more specialists than I do, but he enjoyed car rides, and he loved his vets, no matter what they did to him.
His biggest problem was his food allergies, since it meant we couldn’t put his pills in bread or hot dogs or Pill Pockets, like normal dogs. His hunting instinct was pretty much useless on anything other than medications hidden in his food, and finding cookies in his eye doctor’s lab coat pockets. By the end, Virginia was making grilled chicken, grinding it up, and putting his pills in chicken. Maybe he wasn’t that dumb.
He also could not easily be distracted. One of the vets said that when we had to give him a allergy shot, we should just distract him with a spoonful of peanut butter. A normal dog would start licking the peanut butter off the spoon, and never notice the shot. Murphy would ignore the peanut butter until he had been given the shot, and then lick it off.
The one time I had to take him to visit one of his specialists alone, we were lead to an exam room and he immediately pooped on the floor. A lot. So, I asked, “Uh, did you guys need a stool sample today?” The vet tech said, “No”, so I said, “Then we need some paper towels. And a mop. And a gas mask.”
Murphy wrote our family Christmas newsletter before Rocky took over. It was vastly more popular than the ones I wrote. Murphy got a thank-you note from my Aunt. Hand-written. In the mail. The next year, Murphy wrote about how my sister-in-law was “cheap with the treats” and started a firestorm with my in-laws. Virginia had to remind them Murphy didn’t actually write the newsletter.
Murphy was a good dog, but they’re all good dogs. I’ve had some hesitations about adding dogs to our household with almost all of our dogs. My only hesitation with Murphy was I wasn’t going to call him “Java.”
Murphy and Bubba, guarding the yard
He was the happiest dog I have ever known.
Godspeed, Murph. We’ll see you on the other side. I hope Heaven doesn’t have a glass door.
Are there any pirate openings in Alaska? I think being a pirate in cooler weather would be a good change from the heat of the Caribbean.
I think the only challenge would be finding ships to plunder. Who wants to spend all day yelling, “Arr! I want your crabs! Give me your crabs!” It’s just not right.
I have decided that I am an unemployed pirate. It is an interesting job. Well, it’s not really a job, if I’m unemployed. I suppose I’m an unemployed chef, as well, because I made fish sticks for lunch.
Ye Host, The Unemployed Pirate
Jimmy Buffet said, “Yes, I am a pirate … 200 years too late”, and I know the feeling. I want to be a pirate. However, the hours aren’t that good, there’s apparently lots of work, and you might get killed or imprisoned.
It seems much simpler (and safer) to just take a cruise, demand drinks and food from the cheerful staff, and say, “Thank ye, matey!” when your order is delivered. I’m pretty sure most pirate ships didn’t have room service.
Still, it seems like putting “Pirate” on a resume (or a business card) would stand out as a desired position, and then you would also have the advantage of writing off all your vacation cruises as job training. Tax piracy is still piracy, right?
So, take a GPS on your next cruise. There’s probably one built into your phone. Track your coordinates as you travel from port to port. Now, you’re a navigator. Sure, you probably need to know how to read paper charts and use a sextant, but that’s just if you forget to charge your phone.
Tell your mate to go get you a drink. If you get a drink, you’re the Captain. If you’re told to get your own damn drink, you’re probably just the First Mate. Just don’t ever both wear T-shirts with your “ranks.” It’s very non-pirate.
Yes, I am a pirate. I’m simply unemployed, and I would like a pirate job with decent hours, a medical plan more extensive than just an eye patch and a hook, room and board, and a good chance of advancement. I’d also like a retirement plan a bit more extravagant than a stud earring. Oh, and little chance for arrest.
We went to Ohio to spend Thanksgiving with the grandkids, and we were on a bit of a time constraint, so we flew. We actually had decent seats (by today’s low airline standards), and I as I looked out the window as we flew over a number of the Flyover States, I realized I really didn’t want to fly any more.
It’s not a fear of flying, it’s not even a hatred of how all airlines have become cattle cars. It’s just you can’t see anything from the window of a tube at 35,000 feet.
I missed driving.
For someone that grew up dreading family road trips – mainly because the parental stress was palpable – I have now come full circle.
I would have rather been in a car.
You can stop when you want. You can just pull into a hotel and sleep if you want. Sure, it takes longer than flying, but that’s not really a hardship – if you have the time (and don’t have an ocean to cross.)
I think an RV is in my future. Then, I won’t have to fly any more.
Everyone has food memories from their childhood. Some even have happy food memories.
If you’re like me, and you’re living in the city where you grew up, you may still be able to relive your childhood memories. The only time you can’t is when the place closes. (I really miss Kip’s Big Boy, but I have Frisch’s Big Boy when I visit my grandkids in Ohio.)
I think food memories are hardest on people exiled from their childhood homes (sometimes by choice) where the food is still available, you just can’t get there from here. This is especially true if you are from a cultural background that reveres food.
The Spousal Unit is from Brooklyn and she is Brooklyn Italian. She is … opinionated about food. If you want to get her going, just call “pasta” “noodles” or tell her if she needs pizza, Dominos can be here in a half-hour, and if she really needs an Italian food fix, there’s always the Olive Garden.
Never mention Olive Garden – except to her sisters, who inexplicably like it.
This week, in earth-shaking news, DaVinci Pizzeria, the Spousal Unit’s favorite pizzeria in Brooklyn (and therefore in the world) started shipping their pizza. Shipping, as in having FedEx deliver pizza to anywhere they can reach in two days that is willing to pay the rather pricey shipping charges. (Frozen food requires two-day shipping, which is not cheap.) You can order online, which takes some of the fun out of calling for pizza, but it works.
DaVinci has Sicilian pizza, which is not pizza. It’s a very thick crust, and you don’t get slices, you get squares. It reminds me of Chicago deep-dish pizza, but I don’t say that out loud, because I want to live.
So, while my wife was reveling in the pizza of her childhood arriving on her doorstep, a lot of other people are complaining directly to the pizzeria on their Facebook page about how much it costs.
These were my (slightly-edited) thoughts which I posted, but their page is wisely moderated, so we’ll see if they think it’s worth posting – it’s a defense of small business and a plea to just mind your own beeswax if you think someone has their priorities out of whack:
To everyone complaining about shipping costs, I feel your pain. As the husband of a Brooklyn expatriate, I have had 19+ years of “You don’t understand! You can’t get that here! I NEED IT.”
I’ve only been to DaVinci Pizza once – we were visiting my wife’s family and friends in the area, so we went for lunch. My wife was taking photos of all the food with her cell phone. One of the staff asked if she wanted a picture of the two of us. She said, “Why would I want that? I just need photos of the food.”
Any food shipped to Texas from New York is insanely expensive – but it’s mostly the shipping costs, with the possible exception of Junior’s Cheesecake – and they’re relatively famous, so they have volume in their favor. Pastosa Ravioli will ship, but the shipping costs more than the pasta. We tried to order cookies for my wife’s Aunt in Florida once, and decided we just didn’t love her that much.
My only salvation is Jimmy’s Food Store in East Dallas who has owners that import some critical Italian necessities (as in the aforementioned Pastosa Ravioli.) So, if you’re in Dallas, go to Jimmy’s. Tell them Kevin sent you.
Here’s the issue that Mom and Pop businesses run into – the stores don’t set the shipping rates. They either absorb them which kills their profit or pass them on which annoys their potential customers. Sure, you can ship more slowly, but the food won’t arrive edible. I did think $80+ shipping to get $100 of pizza to Dallas was a bit insane, but it’s cheaper than us flying to Brooklyn and having my wife discover all the other stuff she needs to take home. (It’s also cheaper than a two-day UberEats delivery with the pie in the back of a random driver’s car.)
So, I had really, really good Sicilian pizza last night and a calzone for lunch today, and my wife is happy (Happy wife, well, happy wife.) However, I know my late mom-in-law will put in a good word for me on Judgement Day because I got her favorite child (well, except for her Shih-Tzu) a real Brooklyn Sicilian pizza and I ate a proper calzone.
I didn’t really have much of a choice – I saw the announcement that they were shipping, and I told my wife, so it’s my fault, anyway. My only fear was adding up the costs, and wondering what would happen if it arrived and it sucked.
It didn’t suck.
It may be too expensive for some. However, if it brings someone’s childhood back, even for a moment, that’s worth it.
We are gathered here today,
to remember our brother rat.
He died as he lived his life,
On the patio, and in the yard.
Place rat gently in the pooper scooper.
Please forgive his brother Chihuahua,
Who really just wanted a new fuzzy toy.
As we process to his resting place,
We commit him to his Creator.
Oh, Lord, bless this rat.
Unto You, we commit his soul.
Dump gently over the fence.
Amen.
Notes: Yes, the Chihuahua did it again. I admit “brother” rat is an assumption because I really didn’t want to be examining a dead rat’s genitalia on a darkened patio. You have to say “resting place” and not “final resting place” because while the Chihuahua is inside the fence, there are other critters on the outside. Rest In Peace.
A few years ago, one of our idiot dogs (all of dogs are idiot dogs) peed on the floor. As I walked down a darkened hallway, I felt my foot going out from under me. I slid, cursed, avoided doing the splits, and managed to land on my knees, with most of the weight on the non-surgically reconstructed one. I was in pee, but I was fine.
Why is that important? It shows I’m not a SuperKlutz.
Here’s what happened today.
We had a new washer delivered, and paid extra to have the old one shipped away. While the crew was wrangling the old one out of the utility room, they spilled some of the residual water out.
Now, these guys deliver washers all day long, so they’re probably used to having a bit of water on the floor. Given time, they would have cleaned it up – in fact, they asked for a towel. A towel? Heaven forbid!
SuperKlutz to the rescue! She tried to vacuum up wet dog hair with a hand vac, and then realized there was more water than she thought. She got the mop, walked the 37 inches to the beginning of the puddle, and … slipped and fell on her knee. She tried to break her fall (and failed) with the hand that had been operated on … yesterday.
So, now she has a bandaged hand (with stitches), two shoulders being rehabbed, and a knee with a gouge in it.
How can I slip on an unknown puddle of pee in the middle of the night, and she can’t walk past a known spill that she is attempting to clean? She is a SuperKlutz.
Next time, give the nice man a towel and get out of the way.
The guys delivering the washer helped her get back on her feet. Actually, they just picked her up. They even counted down, like when they picked up the washer.
I suppose I should have tipped them, but how? It didn’t take long for them to raise her. Is there a one-time fee? Tip by the pound?
She has to see her shoulder surgeon on Friday. Luckily, he does knees, as well.
Unfiltered Thoughts 