Ice Ice Baby

A late night mini-post to complain about ice and snow and the cold, cold frozen north in general. I had to scrape ice off my car to get home. That is about the most wretched experience ever. I have an overwhelming sense of the irony that pervades and controls my life whenever I clear the snow from around my Florida license plate. What I wouldn't give for some frickin' palm trees right now. In other news, a trip to New York City, a brief excursion by to Florida for my dad's retirement, and the Valentine's Day Dance (not guaranteed to occur on Valentine's Day) are all coming up, so there should plenty of post fodder for weeks to come. The hilarity continues.

He's a saint

So today is my name day. That is, it is the feast of St. Timothy who I am named after. In Russia, a person's name day is more celebrated that his birthday. I wrote "Happy feast of St. Timothy" up on the board in Freedom's and Professor Root drew a big black X through the "Timothy!" Ah! On my name day! Like it was wrong. If you look here, you can clearly see that today is indeed the feast of St. Timothy. Even more, he wrote "Aquinas" next to it giving the reason the tomorrow is the feast of St. Thomas Aquinas. So what? As if that was a reason. Aquinas' day being tomorrow has no bearing on it being Timothy's day today. What's more, he was wrong. The feast of Aquinas is Friday, not Thursday. Grrrrrr. Anyway, I spent some time reading about saints. Sometimes I wonder about the Catholic Church. Apparently St. Stephen the Martyr is the patron saint of stonemasons. What a macabre irony. Is St. Paul the patron of cloak-room attendants? And get this. St. Timothy, the disciple of Paul, who accompanied him on many of his trips, who went on missionary journeys on Paul's behalf, who ministered to him in prison, who has two books of the Bible named after him, is the patron saint of (drum roll...) stomach trouble. Really. That's it. Why? Because of the verse where Paul says "take a little wine for your stomach's sake." I mean, of all the things, why that? He spread the gospel across Greece. He was the first bishop of Ephesus. He was martyred after opposing a pagan festival dedicated to the goddess Artemis. And what does the Holy Catholic Church honor him for? One line about an upset stomach. What do you have to do to make the Church happy? They freakin' stoned him for christssake. Literally. Anyway, there is a lot more potential in this saint thing, so there may be more on it later.

Two for the price of one!

What contrition! What value! What productiveness! Yes indeed ladies and gentlemen, two posts in the same night. And thus I muse on Kurt Vonnegut, in accordance with prophecy:

I gained a new respect for literary critic Harold Bloom (I've heard his name before, but couldn't tell you what he's done) a few days ago while looking through his suggested Western Canon. All in all it seems like a very standard, solid like of western literature. I wish I had the time to read all of the books he recommends; maybe someday I will. But at the end, when he addresses twentieth-century American books, he lists a book for author Kurt Vonnegut. This in itself is not unusual, the ironic/satirical Vonnegut is on most "Great Books" lists that deal with the twentieth-century. But instead of suggesting the obvious Vonnegut work Slaughterhouse Five like every other lit critic, he includes Cat's Cradle as the best of Vonnegut's novels. I agree. Slaughterhouse Five is okay, but I've never understood why it is considered his best work. Likely because it deals with World War II and has been adopted by the anti-war crowd. Equally likely because it is short. Cat's Cradle has always seemed a superior work, it is entertaining, ironic, and well written. It is thoughtful and absurdly philosophical. I read it all in a single day and it has since been my favorite Vonnegut book. It was nice to have some confirmation. So all of you should go out and read Cat's Cradle. For those at PHC, there is a copy in the library. Go.

Simmer down

In a flash (a week), I post. Here is a poem to whet the appetite.

Glory Machine
The clock of heaven moves
In an orderly pace, exact
So turn the fixed stars
So orbit the visible planets
The pieces fit, cogs teeth in teeth
Who is a cog and who is a spindle
What parts run down
And must be replaced
The best clocks are off
By a second each year
Who is that second
It’s always that year
Where does the error go
When it is corrected
Who sweeps up the bits
That fall off the glory machine

Tim's Back

Agh! That last post! So depressing and so long ago. I apologize for the long absence, I will try to have something wonderful and new up soon and regularly. I have been a bad blogger. Must not let posts get so aged. Soon my darlings, soon.