I remember one time Halloween fell on a Sunday when I was a kid. Since I didn’t have to go to school first, I thought I could get an earlier start treat-or-treating and haul in an extra bag or two of candy.
This idea was shot down when Halloween Sunday arrived. At 11:00 in the morning a young treat-or-treating “witch” or whatever -- apparently thinking like I was -- turned up at our doorstep, and was turned away by my dad. It was simply too early, he said, and it smacked of greed. More importantly, it was Sunday, first and foremost, and stupid old Halloween simply didn’t fit.
In hindsight I see how correct my dad was, whether he knew it or not. Halloween had its origins in Gaelic (Irish) pagan ritual, which existed long before Saint Patrick came to Ireland and converted everybody to Catholicism. I came from an Irish family, but they were quite Catholic, hardly interested in ancient Gaelic ways.
I recently checked out a website dedicated to old Gaelic culture, which described, among many other things, the 4 seasonal observances of the ancient Gaels. The website said --
"The ancestors celebrated the 4 solar events associated with the
pastoral people that inhabited the Isles before the coming of the
Roman, Saxon, and Angles. These times are commonly
referred to as the Samhain, Oimelc, Beltinna, and Lughnasdh."
Samhain (Gaelic for “summer’s end” -- pronounced SAH - win) was the last harvest observance, on Oct 31 - Nov 1. Back then as much as ever, the four seasons mirrored the advance and decline of life itself on earth, and Samhain was the darkest, most death-oriented observance. It’s opposite observance was Beltinna, on May 1, which celebrated light, the return of the long Sun, and new life.
There was supposedly a protective sheath, separating the living “earth” world from the spirit world. This sheath was at its thinnest around Samhain. Spirits of the Dear and not-so-Dear Departed were particularly accessible, and things got very spooky.
After sunset, outdoor bonfires were maintained, to ward off evil spirits and invite good spirits. Spirits of departed loved ones were thought to revisit their old earthly homes. People prayed to these spirits, asked them for advice, left food out for them, put candles at their graves. They even dug up the actual skulls and displayed them in front of their houses, to keep away the evil spirits -- eventually this gross practice was replaced by the display of Jack O’Lanterns.
That’s just a sampling. Throw in the Germanic (European mainland) traditions and you have a ton of superstitious (?) ideas which eventually developed into Halloween. Strip away all the spooky stuff, and it was still - basically - an observance of change of season, appreciation for the harvest, preparation for the cold months, and a hope for future blessings.
In today’s America, strip away the commercialism, the costumes, horror movies, haunted houses and other manufactured scariness -- and you have - basically - NOTHING . I would expect any present-day pagans to be pretty turned off to the whole thing. Not that I know any present-day pagans.
It’s windy and very nippy out there as I type this, and tonight it should be downright wintry. Up here in the woods on Halloween Sunday, perhaps I’ll turn off the World Series for a while, put on an overcoat and step into that pitch darkness, imagining the bonfires, the black and orange landscape, the thin sheath separating the living and spirit worlds, the primitive fear and awe.
In fact, I think I’ll step outside right now. There’s a few hours of daylight left. According to that Gaelic website -- if you catch a falling leaf before it hits the ground on Samhain, you will have good luck and health for the coming winter. Might be worth a try.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
Honus Wagner
The most valuable baseball card in the world is a mint-condition T206 Honus Wagner card, issued in 1909 by the American Tobacco Company. In 2008 the card changed hands for $2.8 million.
This week the T206 Honus Wagner card is again in the news -- albeit a different specimen -- in rather poor condition. It is legally owned by the Sisters of Notre Dame, in Baltimore, who inherited it from a man whose "sister was a Sister" so to speak. On November 4 the Sisters will auction off the card, hoping to make about $150,000 for a number of needy causes.
Strange as this news item might be, Mr. Wagner himself is always part of any story about this card, because it is he who made the card especially rare. In the first few months of the card's existence, Wagner successfully demanded that its production be stopped.
Wagner was ahead of his time. Back in 1909 there was no legal age limit for cigarette sales. Wagner didn't like the idea of children smoking, and didn't want his image used to promote it.
Many have questioned this, saying that Wagner's real beef was about money. The American Tobacco Company never consulted or paid any of the players before using their images. Possibly Wagner gave them an ultimatum -- Pay Me or Pull the Card.
If the story is true, then it could still be said that Wagner was ahead of his time, and would make an excellent Player Rep in this era of pro baseball greed.
Another 75 years would pass before card collecting became a mainstream idea. The amount of collectors skyrocketed in the 1980s, as did the card values. 1984 saw the first publication of the Beckett's Guide to baseball cards, which assigned prices to tens of thousands of vintage cards.
Even new cards were rated, some of them purported to be collectors items even as they rolled off the presses. Back in 1999, I recall once observing a young kid opening packs of cards, with his Beckett Guide right beside him to evaluate each new card. The most choice cards went into plastic protective sleeves.
So different from the careless abandon of my childhood 60s. Back then I didn't care what shape the cards were in. A great many of them were obtained through flipping, scaling (tossing them like Frisbees) and other such games -- the cards were actually PLAYED WITH. Furthermore, the previous year's cards were as worthless as the previous year's calendar, and met the same fate.
But unbenownst to me at the time, there were collectors, people who held on to that 1963 Pete Rose rookie card I threw away, like those unusual folks back in 1909 who held on to the T206 Honus Wagner card.
For all the excesses of baseball, the evils of tobacco, and the callous profiteering in the sports memorabilia biz, it's nice to know something really good can happen occasionally -- here's hoping the good Sisters make a killing on November 4.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Ten Paces
It was July 1804. The Hudson River, separating the wilderness of New Jersey from the bustling little city of New York, gleamed with the reflections of the morning sun. At 6:00 AM, all was peaceful and quiet on the woodsy Jersey side of the river, except for a small rowboat approaching the shore, carrying 5 men.
Two of the men were rowing the boat, getting paid for a special job requiring that they say nothing of it later on. Also in the boat was a doctor, nervous, hoping that his services would not be needed in the next few minutes.
The key figure in the boat was a celebrity, a household word, to many people a national hero. He was 49 years old, had served nobly in the Revolutionary War, had served as Secretary of the Treasury under President George Washington, and had singlehandedly established the U S Treasury. Centuries later his image would be on every ten-dollar bill in the United States.
But if Alexander Hamilton was a hero to many, he was hated by some, especially by powerful people, and this was why he sat in this rowboat, secretly en route to a most fateful encounter.
The 5th person in the boat was a young well-dressed man named Pendleton, who would serve as Mr. Hamilton’s assistant in the upcoming altercation. Pendleton, and the doctor, and Hamilton stepped off the boat as it hit the shore. The rowers waited behind, apprehensive with what was to follow, what would come back from the woods.
Waiting in the woods for Hamilton was the Vice President of the United States of America. Now in his fourth and final year as Vice-President, Aaron Burr had recently been defeated in the New York State Gubernatorial Election. Hamilton was instrumental in this crushing defeat, having used all his political influence against Burr.
And now, Vice President Aaron Burr and Former Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton would settle matters with dueling pistols. Burr had issued the challenge, and Hamilton was compelled to accept, as a matter of honor.
Actually the final impetus for the duel was some derogatory remarks made by Hamilton about Burr, at a cocktail party. The remarks got back to Burr, who demanded an apology and retraction. Hamilton tried to wrangle out of the situation by sending letters to Burr, lecturing him on the various meanings of the word “despicable”, without apologizing. Burr quickly got tired of this and issued the challenge to a duel. Many historians say the whole thing could have been avoided.
At this time in history, thoughtful American people were trying to end the practice of dueling, since in some cases it was little different from murder. New York State had outlawed it, thus Hamilton and Burr had quietly gone over to New Jersey, where the penalties for dueling were much less severe. But such a deadly encounter between these two famous Americans would not be kept secret for long, especially if one of the .56 caliber balls found its mark.
In a clearing in the woods, a handsome hand-carved box was presented, containing two identical pistols, manufactured for the specific purpose of dueling. They were inspected, approved, and loaded, and within a minute the two combatants stood facing each other at a distance of ten paces. One of the officials shouted the word “present”, at which point both men were free to fire whenever they wanted.
To circumvent the law, all of the non-combatants deliberately looked away at the crucial moment, so that they could safely say that they hadn’t “seen” the shooting.
Years later, they would only be able to say that they heard two shots. Hamilton’s shot went wide and high, hitting a tree branch many feet away from Burr. Hamilton’s two companions thought it highly likely that Hamilton had fired first, deliberately missing, and inviting Burr to do the same. In some duels this led to a “satisfaction of the honor” of the offended person, and an end to hostilities.
However Burr was a ruthlessly ambitious man, with an opportunity to end Hamilton’s blockade of his career. Burr’s aim was true, and when the smoke cleared Hamilton lay mortally wounded, bleeding from the abdomen, with the doctor helpless to save him. He was carried back to the boat, and rushed back across the river to his house in New York City, where he would die the next day.
It was a sudden and improbable end for a man who had survived earlier war experience, who continued to be involved in the shaping of this young and exciting nation, who had a flourishing New York City law practice, who had a beloved wife and 7 children. In short, it didn’t make sense that he took such a chance with Burr.
For all his high position, political savvy, and ambition, Burr committed political suicide when he fired at Hamilton. He miscalculated public reaction. News of the fatal duel spread far and wide, and the nation officially mourned. Both New York State and New Jersey filed criminal charges.
However Burr never went on trial, and in early 1805 he finished his term as Vice President. His political life in ruins, he went out West, and concocted some remarkable and unsuccessful plans to attain power out there, in one case trying to be the “monarch” of a large section of Northern Mexico.
The Hamilton-Burr duel was stunning at the time, because of the fame of the two men. Yet illegal dueling continued, in secret places, despite the efforts of legislators, and religious and civic groups. It was especially strong down South, where the Code of Chivalry and Honor allowed a person to defend any perceived slight to his honor, no matter how mismatched the opponents.
All 50 states have anti-dueling regulations now, and I don‘t feel the need for weekly target practice. But there will always be challenges and fights among men, as long as there’s power, women, money, honor, and self-respect at stake. It’s testosterone, it’s human nature, it’s inevitable, and perhaps I’ll ponder this whenever I have a few seconds to stare at a ten-dollar bill.
Two of the men were rowing the boat, getting paid for a special job requiring that they say nothing of it later on. Also in the boat was a doctor, nervous, hoping that his services would not be needed in the next few minutes.
The key figure in the boat was a celebrity, a household word, to many people a national hero. He was 49 years old, had served nobly in the Revolutionary War, had served as Secretary of the Treasury under President George Washington, and had singlehandedly established the U S Treasury. Centuries later his image would be on every ten-dollar bill in the United States.
But if Alexander Hamilton was a hero to many, he was hated by some, especially by powerful people, and this was why he sat in this rowboat, secretly en route to a most fateful encounter.
The 5th person in the boat was a young well-dressed man named Pendleton, who would serve as Mr. Hamilton’s assistant in the upcoming altercation. Pendleton, and the doctor, and Hamilton stepped off the boat as it hit the shore. The rowers waited behind, apprehensive with what was to follow, what would come back from the woods.
Waiting in the woods for Hamilton was the Vice President of the United States of America. Now in his fourth and final year as Vice-President, Aaron Burr had recently been defeated in the New York State Gubernatorial Election. Hamilton was instrumental in this crushing defeat, having used all his political influence against Burr.
And now, Vice President Aaron Burr and Former Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton would settle matters with dueling pistols. Burr had issued the challenge, and Hamilton was compelled to accept, as a matter of honor.
Actually the final impetus for the duel was some derogatory remarks made by Hamilton about Burr, at a cocktail party. The remarks got back to Burr, who demanded an apology and retraction. Hamilton tried to wrangle out of the situation by sending letters to Burr, lecturing him on the various meanings of the word “despicable”, without apologizing. Burr quickly got tired of this and issued the challenge to a duel. Many historians say the whole thing could have been avoided.
At this time in history, thoughtful American people were trying to end the practice of dueling, since in some cases it was little different from murder. New York State had outlawed it, thus Hamilton and Burr had quietly gone over to New Jersey, where the penalties for dueling were much less severe. But such a deadly encounter between these two famous Americans would not be kept secret for long, especially if one of the .56 caliber balls found its mark.
In a clearing in the woods, a handsome hand-carved box was presented, containing two identical pistols, manufactured for the specific purpose of dueling. They were inspected, approved, and loaded, and within a minute the two combatants stood facing each other at a distance of ten paces. One of the officials shouted the word “present”, at which point both men were free to fire whenever they wanted.
To circumvent the law, all of the non-combatants deliberately looked away at the crucial moment, so that they could safely say that they hadn’t “seen” the shooting.
Years later, they would only be able to say that they heard two shots. Hamilton’s shot went wide and high, hitting a tree branch many feet away from Burr. Hamilton’s two companions thought it highly likely that Hamilton had fired first, deliberately missing, and inviting Burr to do the same. In some duels this led to a “satisfaction of the honor” of the offended person, and an end to hostilities.
However Burr was a ruthlessly ambitious man, with an opportunity to end Hamilton’s blockade of his career. Burr’s aim was true, and when the smoke cleared Hamilton lay mortally wounded, bleeding from the abdomen, with the doctor helpless to save him. He was carried back to the boat, and rushed back across the river to his house in New York City, where he would die the next day.
It was a sudden and improbable end for a man who had survived earlier war experience, who continued to be involved in the shaping of this young and exciting nation, who had a flourishing New York City law practice, who had a beloved wife and 7 children. In short, it didn’t make sense that he took such a chance with Burr.
For all his high position, political savvy, and ambition, Burr committed political suicide when he fired at Hamilton. He miscalculated public reaction. News of the fatal duel spread far and wide, and the nation officially mourned. Both New York State and New Jersey filed criminal charges.
However Burr never went on trial, and in early 1805 he finished his term as Vice President. His political life in ruins, he went out West, and concocted some remarkable and unsuccessful plans to attain power out there, in one case trying to be the “monarch” of a large section of Northern Mexico.
The Hamilton-Burr duel was stunning at the time, because of the fame of the two men. Yet illegal dueling continued, in secret places, despite the efforts of legislators, and religious and civic groups. It was especially strong down South, where the Code of Chivalry and Honor allowed a person to defend any perceived slight to his honor, no matter how mismatched the opponents.
All 50 states have anti-dueling regulations now, and I don‘t feel the need for weekly target practice. But there will always be challenges and fights among men, as long as there’s power, women, money, honor, and self-respect at stake. It’s testosterone, it’s human nature, it’s inevitable, and perhaps I’ll ponder this whenever I have a few seconds to stare at a ten-dollar bill.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Till I Waltz Again With You
It was sometime in the early 90s, for me a typical Sunday of early evening piano at the Cavalier Restaurant in Jackson Heights -- old songs, at an old piano, for an old audience.
Presently a non-descript-looking gentleman, perhaps in his mid-sixties, wearing a ratty gray jacket, appeared at the piano, asking me to play “his song”. And What Song is That, I asked.
“Till I Waltz Again With You” he said, and I apologized for not knowing it. Not only could I not play it, I had no clue how it went, and had never even seen the title in print. This was an uncomfortable situation because….
….this man was the AUTHOR of “Till I Waltz Again With You”. His name was Sid Prosen, and he went on to say that his song was a #1 hit for Theresa Brewer, and any competent piano man should know it. He wasn’t angry, but a tad condescending, and I instantly disliked him.
I said something like OK I’ll research the song, and Is There Something Else I Could Play For You Instead, Sir? But he had no second choice, and I went home that evening dismissing the incident, thinking that this Mr. Prosen, whoever he was with his ratty gray jacket, would hopefully not turn up again.
But turn up again he did, a few weeks later. This time I had no excuse for not knowing “Till I Waltz Again With You”, and his condescension was double. I swore I’d learn it very soon.
My day job at ASCAP did have some good research avenues, and the next day I listened to the original Theresa Brewer recording. It turned out that Mr. Prosen was on the level -- “Till I Waltz Again With You” was indeed #1 on the Billboard charts on 1952, for quite a few weeks. I had considered myself very knowledgeable on 1950s #1 songs, and was fascinated that this song had done such a disappearing act. Ironically, the tune was not a waltz, but rather a moderate shuffle beat, quite easy to play on a piano. It was as simple as Yankee Doodle, and it was the ONLY thing Mr. Prosen ever wrote that went anywhere.
I was reminded of the movie “Amadeus”, which featured a mediocre 18th century Classical composer, named Salieri. He lived long enough to see all of his music go completely into oblivion, while the divinely-inspired works of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart steadily increased in popularity long after his untimely demise. Here in the 20th century, Sid Prosen’s One Big Tune was only 40 years in the past, but this point the only person who seemed to remember it was Sid himself.
I learned the tune in no time, and was delighted and ready to “make Sid’s Day” (maybe even get him to throw a buck into the tip jar?) when he walked in a few weeks later. I teased him, made him wait while he dined, once again alone, once again in the ratty gray jacket. Of course he finally approached the piano, and I proudly gave him a knowing smile as I played the first few bars.
Sid smiled, sang along with his own tune, waved his arms in the air like a conductor. Then he walked from table to table, saying “that’s my song” to anyone who would listen. I was happy that Sid could strut and brag, but I was a little sad that he felt the need to.
This little friendship of piano man and “hit composer” lasted a few more months, but eventually he stopped showing up. Many years later he came to mind, and I did some sleuthing. He had in fact, passed away a few years after I last saw him, and his meager airplay royalties were going to some small publishing company.
I wish I had spoken to him more. Perhaps there was more to his story. But I blew the chance, assuming that he’d keep showing up. As it stands now, this is the brief story of a man whose biggest showbiz triumph happened when he was a very young man, a triumph he would cling to for the rest of his life. At least that’s how it appears, in the eyes and ears of this piano player, who just might be the last piano player on earth to perform “Till I Waltz Again With You”
Presently a non-descript-looking gentleman, perhaps in his mid-sixties, wearing a ratty gray jacket, appeared at the piano, asking me to play “his song”. And What Song is That, I asked.
“Till I Waltz Again With You” he said, and I apologized for not knowing it. Not only could I not play it, I had no clue how it went, and had never even seen the title in print. This was an uncomfortable situation because….
….this man was the AUTHOR of “Till I Waltz Again With You”. His name was Sid Prosen, and he went on to say that his song was a #1 hit for Theresa Brewer, and any competent piano man should know it. He wasn’t angry, but a tad condescending, and I instantly disliked him.
I said something like OK I’ll research the song, and Is There Something Else I Could Play For You Instead, Sir? But he had no second choice, and I went home that evening dismissing the incident, thinking that this Mr. Prosen, whoever he was with his ratty gray jacket, would hopefully not turn up again.
But turn up again he did, a few weeks later. This time I had no excuse for not knowing “Till I Waltz Again With You”, and his condescension was double. I swore I’d learn it very soon.
My day job at ASCAP did have some good research avenues, and the next day I listened to the original Theresa Brewer recording. It turned out that Mr. Prosen was on the level -- “Till I Waltz Again With You” was indeed #1 on the Billboard charts on 1952, for quite a few weeks. I had considered myself very knowledgeable on 1950s #1 songs, and was fascinated that this song had done such a disappearing act. Ironically, the tune was not a waltz, but rather a moderate shuffle beat, quite easy to play on a piano. It was as simple as Yankee Doodle, and it was the ONLY thing Mr. Prosen ever wrote that went anywhere.
I was reminded of the movie “Amadeus”, which featured a mediocre 18th century Classical composer, named Salieri. He lived long enough to see all of his music go completely into oblivion, while the divinely-inspired works of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart steadily increased in popularity long after his untimely demise. Here in the 20th century, Sid Prosen’s One Big Tune was only 40 years in the past, but this point the only person who seemed to remember it was Sid himself.
I learned the tune in no time, and was delighted and ready to “make Sid’s Day” (maybe even get him to throw a buck into the tip jar?) when he walked in a few weeks later. I teased him, made him wait while he dined, once again alone, once again in the ratty gray jacket. Of course he finally approached the piano, and I proudly gave him a knowing smile as I played the first few bars.
Sid smiled, sang along with his own tune, waved his arms in the air like a conductor. Then he walked from table to table, saying “that’s my song” to anyone who would listen. I was happy that Sid could strut and brag, but I was a little sad that he felt the need to.
This little friendship of piano man and “hit composer” lasted a few more months, but eventually he stopped showing up. Many years later he came to mind, and I did some sleuthing. He had in fact, passed away a few years after I last saw him, and his meager airplay royalties were going to some small publishing company.
I wish I had spoken to him more. Perhaps there was more to his story. But I blew the chance, assuming that he’d keep showing up. As it stands now, this is the brief story of a man whose biggest showbiz triumph happened when he was a very young man, a triumph he would cling to for the rest of his life. At least that’s how it appears, in the eyes and ears of this piano player, who just might be the last piano player on earth to perform “Till I Waltz Again With You”
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
And In This Corner.....
I’ve always felt that the best nighttime dreams are the bad ones -- the nightmares -- because you feel so darn good when you wake up to find them untrue. Such was the case this morning when I woke up, quite relieved that I did not have to fight Joe Frazier at Madison Square Garden.
For the uninitiated -- “Smokin’ Joe” Frazier was a great heavyweight boxer, World Champ for a while in the early 1970s. He fought the legendary Muhammed Ali 3 times, actually winning the first fight. He was an extremely tough, hard-hitting hombre, one of the few who ever knocked Muhammed Ali to the canvas.
As for what he might do to ME in the ring…well this was the focus of the dream. In the dream I wasn’t DOING very much. I was apparently in a subway station, very close to Madison Square Garden, sitting down, thinking of this upcoming fight, which was to happen within the hour. And I was STALLING. It was a non-action dream, during which I “contemplated“ action.
There was some awareness that Frazier was retired, or least not the current Heavyweight Champ. This was no consolation, and I was well aware of almost certain pulverization. It was simply a matter of whether I go in swinging wildly, hoping for a lucky punch, or cover up in defensive posture, which would postpone the inevitable for a few seconds. In the dream I sat and weighed these options, and these thoughts actually had corresponding “pictures” of myself in the ring, briefly trying these strategies.
It was the money, it was the money….I even knew what I was getting paid in the dream -- $12,000, as a last minute challenger to Frazier. This last-minute substitute factor is exactly what happened to Sylvester Stallone in the first “Rocky” movie. So this was my first movie-plagiarism dream. But by today’s standards, $12,000 is pretty lousy payment for getting demolished by Joe Frazier in legendary Madison Square Garden, and I’m a little disappointed in my “dream self” for settling for so little.
At one point, I looked at my watch…only 25 minutes to go….gotta have that $12,000.…they’ll sue me if I was a no-show….I’d be forever branded a coward if I didn’t show up….maybe I should walk out there with my hands at my sides, get it over with quickly…damn, I really don’t want to do this….
…..And with that I woke up, it was morning, one of the nicest wake-ups of my life. Wow, I REALLY DON’T have to fight Joe Frazier. Think I’ll have a coffee, make sure I don’t go back to sleep.
Vivid dreams have some logical explanation, so I suppose I’ll spend time today wondering where this thing came from. In any case I hope it isn’t some kind of “to be continued” dream with a Part Two.
I’m tempted to write ol’ Smokin’ Joe himself about all this. I don‘t know him at all, but he might find it amusing. Who knows, maybe he had a dream about having to fight some utterly unqualified opponent, some old piano player. Well, maybe not, but I might get an autographed photo out of it.
For the uninitiated -- “Smokin’ Joe” Frazier was a great heavyweight boxer, World Champ for a while in the early 1970s. He fought the legendary Muhammed Ali 3 times, actually winning the first fight. He was an extremely tough, hard-hitting hombre, one of the few who ever knocked Muhammed Ali to the canvas.
As for what he might do to ME in the ring…well this was the focus of the dream. In the dream I wasn’t DOING very much. I was apparently in a subway station, very close to Madison Square Garden, sitting down, thinking of this upcoming fight, which was to happen within the hour. And I was STALLING. It was a non-action dream, during which I “contemplated“ action.
There was some awareness that Frazier was retired, or least not the current Heavyweight Champ. This was no consolation, and I was well aware of almost certain pulverization. It was simply a matter of whether I go in swinging wildly, hoping for a lucky punch, or cover up in defensive posture, which would postpone the inevitable for a few seconds. In the dream I sat and weighed these options, and these thoughts actually had corresponding “pictures” of myself in the ring, briefly trying these strategies.
It was the money, it was the money….I even knew what I was getting paid in the dream -- $12,000, as a last minute challenger to Frazier. This last-minute substitute factor is exactly what happened to Sylvester Stallone in the first “Rocky” movie. So this was my first movie-plagiarism dream. But by today’s standards, $12,000 is pretty lousy payment for getting demolished by Joe Frazier in legendary Madison Square Garden, and I’m a little disappointed in my “dream self” for settling for so little.
At one point, I looked at my watch…only 25 minutes to go….gotta have that $12,000.…they’ll sue me if I was a no-show….I’d be forever branded a coward if I didn’t show up….maybe I should walk out there with my hands at my sides, get it over with quickly…damn, I really don’t want to do this….
…..And with that I woke up, it was morning, one of the nicest wake-ups of my life. Wow, I REALLY DON’T have to fight Joe Frazier. Think I’ll have a coffee, make sure I don’t go back to sleep.
Vivid dreams have some logical explanation, so I suppose I’ll spend time today wondering where this thing came from. In any case I hope it isn’t some kind of “to be continued” dream with a Part Two.
I’m tempted to write ol’ Smokin’ Joe himself about all this. I don‘t know him at all, but he might find it amusing. Who knows, maybe he had a dream about having to fight some utterly unqualified opponent, some old piano player. Well, maybe not, but I might get an autographed photo out of it.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
One-Way Ticket
My devout Catholic friend sat across the table and sighed. She’d recently had a serious disagreement with her daughter, a disagreement that would be impossible to patch up.
The daughter, married and living in California, was attempting in vitro fertilization, thus far without success. My Catholic friend had told her daughter, gently but firmly, that she would “pray for the souls of the other 13”.
I then learned that “in vitro” involves the creation of many sperm-egg conceptions -- embryos -- in this case a total of 14. They are frozen 3 days after conception, when they consist of about 8 cells each, and the unused ones are eventually destroyed.
As the Catholic Church sees it, not only does human life begin at conception; but so does the soul. No reincarnation here -- this is the very creation of an eternal being, quite a feat for upright-walking mammals, whether done the old-fashioned way, or “within the glass” -- the meaning of the Latin “in vitro“.
It struck me that the 13 souls were “innocents”, obviously. Therefore I wondered -- why would they need prayers? Surely they had a one-way ticket to Heaven. They “win the game”, it seemed to me, and I expressed this to my friend in those words, not facetiously, but in a genuine attempt to see the bright side.
An EXTREMELY bright side, in the simple mindset of my Catholic boyhood . Back then, it seemed to me that the whole idea was to save your soul, go to Heaven, avoid Hell, minimize one’s “time” in Purgatory, basically by living morally. A few minutes of recent Googling indicated that the Church has not altered these ideas. If you die with Mortal Sin on your soul, or perhaps “Chronic Mortal Sin”, you still go to The Other Place -- forever. I would hope the Church would not alter their policy on such an ultra-important concept, just to make things easier for people "nowadays".
We’re talking Eternity here, the contemplation of which, by definition, is pretty much impossible, and one winds up very impressed with how brief a human lifetime really is, with ultimately no difference between 90 years and 90 seconds.
So wouldn’t a one-way ticket to Heaven be a great thing? What’s a few seconds of suffering, or an early demise, compared to Eternal Happiness? A believer should HOPE for a well-timed (i.e. “sin-less”) departure from this life, say for instance killed immediately after he steps out of the confessional. The murderer would be doing his victim a priceless favor. Stretching the logic a bit, you could posit that the murderer could then go to confession, get absolved, and hopefully get similarly dispatched to the Pearly Gates.
OK OK, this reasoning quickly starts to look ridiculous when viewed from other angles. Most folks agree that taking someone’s life is wrong, for a number of reasons, regardless of the Afterlife Factor. Any ideas to the contrary are barely arguable, and the world would be considerably more dangerous if people embraced them.
Our discussion of “IVF” ended pretty abruptly. The subject was already upsetting to my devout Catholic friend, and my remarks were certainly no help. She didn’t say it, but she probably thought me a simpleton in serious need of Theological study. Which I just might pursue. But I came away from this chat with a new appreciation of “separation of Church and State”, as specified in the Constitution. The Founding Fathers insisted on it, thank God.
The daughter, married and living in California, was attempting in vitro fertilization, thus far without success. My Catholic friend had told her daughter, gently but firmly, that she would “pray for the souls of the other 13”.
I then learned that “in vitro” involves the creation of many sperm-egg conceptions -- embryos -- in this case a total of 14. They are frozen 3 days after conception, when they consist of about 8 cells each, and the unused ones are eventually destroyed.
As the Catholic Church sees it, not only does human life begin at conception; but so does the soul. No reincarnation here -- this is the very creation of an eternal being, quite a feat for upright-walking mammals, whether done the old-fashioned way, or “within the glass” -- the meaning of the Latin “in vitro“.
It struck me that the 13 souls were “innocents”, obviously. Therefore I wondered -- why would they need prayers? Surely they had a one-way ticket to Heaven. They “win the game”, it seemed to me, and I expressed this to my friend in those words, not facetiously, but in a genuine attempt to see the bright side.
An EXTREMELY bright side, in the simple mindset of my Catholic boyhood . Back then, it seemed to me that the whole idea was to save your soul, go to Heaven, avoid Hell, minimize one’s “time” in Purgatory, basically by living morally. A few minutes of recent Googling indicated that the Church has not altered these ideas. If you die with Mortal Sin on your soul, or perhaps “Chronic Mortal Sin”, you still go to The Other Place -- forever. I would hope the Church would not alter their policy on such an ultra-important concept, just to make things easier for people "nowadays".
We’re talking Eternity here, the contemplation of which, by definition, is pretty much impossible, and one winds up very impressed with how brief a human lifetime really is, with ultimately no difference between 90 years and 90 seconds.
So wouldn’t a one-way ticket to Heaven be a great thing? What’s a few seconds of suffering, or an early demise, compared to Eternal Happiness? A believer should HOPE for a well-timed (i.e. “sin-less”) departure from this life, say for instance killed immediately after he steps out of the confessional. The murderer would be doing his victim a priceless favor. Stretching the logic a bit, you could posit that the murderer could then go to confession, get absolved, and hopefully get similarly dispatched to the Pearly Gates.
OK OK, this reasoning quickly starts to look ridiculous when viewed from other angles. Most folks agree that taking someone’s life is wrong, for a number of reasons, regardless of the Afterlife Factor. Any ideas to the contrary are barely arguable, and the world would be considerably more dangerous if people embraced them.
Our discussion of “IVF” ended pretty abruptly. The subject was already upsetting to my devout Catholic friend, and my remarks were certainly no help. She didn’t say it, but she probably thought me a simpleton in serious need of Theological study. Which I just might pursue. But I came away from this chat with a new appreciation of “separation of Church and State”, as specified in the Constitution. The Founding Fathers insisted on it, thank God.
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