Tuesday, December 12, 2017
You can now get your boyfriend’s head printed on this sex toy… and it’s just a little bit creepy
Ladies, don't you put up with him enough now? You can now get your boyfriend’s head printed on this sex toy… and it’s just a little bit creepy: Swedish manufacturer Wobbling Willy has created a sex toy that customers can have customised with a 3D model of anyone’s face. On the website, the product is billed as being perfect for couples in long distance relationships and those who might be missing their other half
Wednesday, December 06, 2017
At Denton Golf Course, Feral Hogs Provide Unusual Hazard - NBC 5 Dallas-Fort Worth
In this case, might ask guys with guns, rather than clubs, to make a hole in one. At Denton Golf Course, Feral Hogs Provide Unusual Hazard - NBC 5 Dallas-Fort Worth
Monday, December 04, 2017
Irish villagers complain Viagra plant fumes have men and dogs walking around with 'hard-ons'
Which also makes it harder to tell them apart. Irish villagers complain Viagra plant fumes have men and dogs walking around with 'hard-ons'
Friday, November 03, 2017
Monday, May 29, 2017
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 2004
A weekend visitor
Until this summer, I admit I thought little about hurricanes. Each year our local paper printed a hurricane survival guide and local television stations reminded us to be prepared. That meant having canned food, batteries, flashlights, candles, a full tank of gas and nearly everything else you would need for either a quick getaway to a shelter or a long stay in a home without power.
A hurricane hadn't hit my corner of Southwest Florida in nearly 45 years, meaning nearly three generations of longtime residents were spared the horrors of damaging winds and rain. Even 1992's Hurricane Andrew, the standard for American natural disasters, did not do Southwest Florida the harm it did to Homestead on the state's east side.
But when Hurricane Charley changed course and pummeled the quaint Old Florida towns of Punta Gorda, Port Charlotte and Arcadia more than a month ago, it forever changed how everyone here views hurricanes' damaging power. Not a day has passed weather hasn't come up in personal or phone conversations. Everyone is an amatuer meterologist now. Even my 7 year old son turned away from his Disney and Nickelodeon cartoons to watch "Storm Stories" and "Weather on the 8s." The natural power of a tornado beats anything Jimmy Neutron can dish out. The weather was once a benign topic to open conversation with before getting to the business of the day. Now such conversations close with, "You're in our thoughts and prayers."
I'm proud of my employers. They held an auction today for the victims of Hurricane Charley even as Hurricane Jeanne flies out of Major Nelson's bottle and potentially in our path. The array of prizes auctioned off and the prices paid for them were astonishing...$500 for a football helmet autographed by Florida football coach Ron Zook (an autograph many Gator fans wanted on a resignation two years ago.) . $1000 for plane trip and hotel in Arizona. Gift baskets, restuarant certificates, DVDs, even a painting by a co-worker...all in the name of people helping each other.
This followed by a week a unique concert during which members and ex-members of classic rock groups AC/DC, Foreigner, and Bad Company performed and raised $80,000 for hurricane relief. The numbers are staggering, so is the damage and the need. I'm glad I was able to contribute a little bit of time and money so far. It reminded me of one of my true beliefs..even here amid the ruins and rebuilding, there is never much but always more.
A hurricane hadn't hit my corner of Southwest Florida in nearly 45 years, meaning nearly three generations of longtime residents were spared the horrors of damaging winds and rain. Even 1992's Hurricane Andrew, the standard for American natural disasters, did not do Southwest Florida the harm it did to Homestead on the state's east side.
But when Hurricane Charley changed course and pummeled the quaint Old Florida towns of Punta Gorda, Port Charlotte and Arcadia more than a month ago, it forever changed how everyone here views hurricanes' damaging power. Not a day has passed weather hasn't come up in personal or phone conversations. Everyone is an amatuer meterologist now. Even my 7 year old son turned away from his Disney and Nickelodeon cartoons to watch "Storm Stories" and "Weather on the 8s." The natural power of a tornado beats anything Jimmy Neutron can dish out. The weather was once a benign topic to open conversation with before getting to the business of the day. Now such conversations close with, "You're in our thoughts and prayers."
I'm proud of my employers. They held an auction today for the victims of Hurricane Charley even as Hurricane Jeanne flies out of Major Nelson's bottle and potentially in our path. The array of prizes auctioned off and the prices paid for them were astonishing...$500 for a football helmet autographed by Florida football coach Ron Zook (an autograph many Gator fans wanted on a resignation two years ago.) . $1000 for plane trip and hotel in Arizona. Gift baskets, restuarant certificates, DVDs, even a painting by a co-worker...all in the name of people helping each other.
This followed by a week a unique concert during which members and ex-members of classic rock groups AC/DC, Foreigner, and Bad Company performed and raised $80,000 for hurricane relief. The numbers are staggering, so is the damage and the need. I'm glad I was able to contribute a little bit of time and money so far. It reminded me of one of my true beliefs..even here amid the ruins and rebuilding, there is never much but always more.
SATURDAY, MARCH 12, 2005
Free Terri Schiavo!
I've been away awhile with these posts I know. Today was filled with great hope and fear, with some dismay. I spent the best part of it in front of Woodside Hospise in Pinellas Park, about 30 minutes from St Petersburg, FL.
Terri Schiavo is a 41-year old brain damaged woman staying at that hospise, and will receive food and water through a feeding tube until March 18. Then, by wish of her husband Michael and order of Judge George Greer, her feeding tube will be removed and she'll die a long, painful death from dehydration and starvation. (Read Terri's complete story and what you can do to help at www.terrisfight.org).
Woodside is located along a thin side street in an industrial district. It's flanked by small warehouses and garages, in a part of town dominated by businesses catering to short-term gains and exploitation of the weak: pawn, check cashing and bail bond shops, used car lots where "everybody drives home" at huge interest rates. Three police cars blocked the parking lot in front of the hospise door, but the policemen only needed to assure the faithful crossed the street safely.
A small tent in front held statues of Jesus and the Blessed Mother surrounded by candles, on a stage flanked by red roses. A young woman distributed cups and bottles of water, although temperatures were pleasant for mid-March. Protesters (around 200) came from Maryland, California and Colorado holding signs affirming the right to life and attacking Michael Schiavo and Judge Greer. They sang classic hymns like "Whatsoever You Do" and "Holy God We Praise Thy Name." Children led the Luminous Mysteries of the Rosary, sweetly reversing the order of the "Hail Mary" while a woman held a umbrella keeping the sun from a priest's eyes. A young woman led the crowd in prayer while holding a relic of John Cardinal Neumann.
The faithful asked questions in press conference style. What of Michael Schiavo, did he take a lie detector test? Can they sue him for negligence? What of Judge George Greer, can he recuse himself, or be impeached? Could Governor Bush push the legislature to pass a bill before March 16, or take Terri into his own care? Could President Bush help? Could the hospise be pressured? So many with questions, wanting to do something. The answers were to pray, email your local lawmaker, tell others to do the same, wash, rinse, repeat.
The speakers were forthright. Kate Adamson is a gorgeous woman and herself a stroke victim, left for dead but for a husband dedicated to her recovery. She said she would stay in Florida another week to address a rally in Tallahassee and the court and legislature if permitted. A priest attacked his church leadership for not rebuking, let alone excommunicating, Catholics involved in Terri's fate. (He also reminded the crowd the Holy Spirit led the Church and would bring seminarians to replace and restore that leadership.) He wanted Terri's case mentioned from the pulpit, saying few priests had done so (the Diocese of Venice printed a statement on Terri in last week's bulletins.)
If I'd had the chance to speak to the crowd I would have reminded them of Jesus' parable of the woman demanding justice of the corrupt judge, asking them to literally bug the hell out of Michael Schiavo and Judge Greer and the "culture of death" they promote. I'd have encouraged them to think of and pray for Terri in spare moments we rarely think: driving, walking, taking breaks at work, to think of and pray for one who could someday leave her bed and rejoin the active world if somehow allowed. I'd remind them to be kind and gracious and empathetic, for only in isolation and grief does our will to live warp into the "right to die." "Quality of life" is only for the person living it. And while I admire everyone who fights abortion's evils worldwide (including the anti abortion shirts sold at this event) this week belongs to the preservation of one life.
Two CDs traveled in the car wherever I went: the Beatles "1" and Catholic singer John Michael Talbot's "Signatures," which I purchased during one of his concerts. I remembered Terri loved music, and gave my autographed copy of "Signatures" to Monsignor Thaddeus Malinowski, the family's spiritual advisor. Hearing Talbot's "I Am the Bread of Life" painfully reminds you Terri, a devout Catholic and thus opposed to euthanasia, is by law forbidden to receive Communion. ("I am God's love revealed/I am broken, that you might be healed...")
My dismay? It was over a friend's personal slight; in the long run it really didn't matter. This day, this week belongs to Terri Schiavo, her loving family and faithful people who believe quality of life comes from a loving God and family. I only went to Pinellas Park to stand with those who stood for life. Pray this week for a miracle.
Terri Schiavo is a 41-year old brain damaged woman staying at that hospise, and will receive food and water through a feeding tube until March 18. Then, by wish of her husband Michael and order of Judge George Greer, her feeding tube will be removed and she'll die a long, painful death from dehydration and starvation. (Read Terri's complete story and what you can do to help at www.terrisfight.org).
Woodside is located along a thin side street in an industrial district. It's flanked by small warehouses and garages, in a part of town dominated by businesses catering to short-term gains and exploitation of the weak: pawn, check cashing and bail bond shops, used car lots where "everybody drives home" at huge interest rates. Three police cars blocked the parking lot in front of the hospise door, but the policemen only needed to assure the faithful crossed the street safely.
A small tent in front held statues of Jesus and the Blessed Mother surrounded by candles, on a stage flanked by red roses. A young woman distributed cups and bottles of water, although temperatures were pleasant for mid-March. Protesters (around 200) came from Maryland, California and Colorado holding signs affirming the right to life and attacking Michael Schiavo and Judge Greer. They sang classic hymns like "Whatsoever You Do" and "Holy God We Praise Thy Name." Children led the Luminous Mysteries of the Rosary, sweetly reversing the order of the "Hail Mary" while a woman held a umbrella keeping the sun from a priest's eyes. A young woman led the crowd in prayer while holding a relic of John Cardinal Neumann.
The faithful asked questions in press conference style. What of Michael Schiavo, did he take a lie detector test? Can they sue him for negligence? What of Judge George Greer, can he recuse himself, or be impeached? Could Governor Bush push the legislature to pass a bill before March 16, or take Terri into his own care? Could President Bush help? Could the hospise be pressured? So many with questions, wanting to do something. The answers were to pray, email your local lawmaker, tell others to do the same, wash, rinse, repeat.
The speakers were forthright. Kate Adamson is a gorgeous woman and herself a stroke victim, left for dead but for a husband dedicated to her recovery. She said she would stay in Florida another week to address a rally in Tallahassee and the court and legislature if permitted. A priest attacked his church leadership for not rebuking, let alone excommunicating, Catholics involved in Terri's fate. (He also reminded the crowd the Holy Spirit led the Church and would bring seminarians to replace and restore that leadership.) He wanted Terri's case mentioned from the pulpit, saying few priests had done so (the Diocese of Venice printed a statement on Terri in last week's bulletins.)
If I'd had the chance to speak to the crowd I would have reminded them of Jesus' parable of the woman demanding justice of the corrupt judge, asking them to literally bug the hell out of Michael Schiavo and Judge Greer and the "culture of death" they promote. I'd have encouraged them to think of and pray for Terri in spare moments we rarely think: driving, walking, taking breaks at work, to think of and pray for one who could someday leave her bed and rejoin the active world if somehow allowed. I'd remind them to be kind and gracious and empathetic, for only in isolation and grief does our will to live warp into the "right to die." "Quality of life" is only for the person living it. And while I admire everyone who fights abortion's evils worldwide (including the anti abortion shirts sold at this event) this week belongs to the preservation of one life.
Two CDs traveled in the car wherever I went: the Beatles "1" and Catholic singer John Michael Talbot's "Signatures," which I purchased during one of his concerts. I remembered Terri loved music, and gave my autographed copy of "Signatures" to Monsignor Thaddeus Malinowski, the family's spiritual advisor. Hearing Talbot's "I Am the Bread of Life" painfully reminds you Terri, a devout Catholic and thus opposed to euthanasia, is by law forbidden to receive Communion. ("I am God's love revealed/I am broken, that you might be healed...")
My dismay? It was over a friend's personal slight; in the long run it really didn't matter. This day, this week belongs to Terri Schiavo, her loving family and faithful people who believe quality of life comes from a loving God and family. I only went to Pinellas Park to stand with those who stood for life. Pray this week for a miracle.
Lazarus, Come Out!
I've been fortunate my last three years in Florida to visit my dad and sister once or twice a year. I take the children when I can, and when I do they're treated with the celebrity of visiting royalty. My sister stocks their already crowded pantry with snacks and soda, buys out the dollar toy store for them and smothers them with kisses. My dad greets them with warm hugs and shouts of "Pop Pop." Best of all, they've played with the small litters of kittens who, in my dad, found a benefactor good for a warm place to sleep and saucer of milk.
I'd sleep on the couch, awakening to make coffee before Uncle Joe drove up the back alley of my dad's house. He'd sit beside my dad and talk baseball, relatives, or the local morning's news from the Norristown Times Herald. It was a great way to start the morning and a reminder I was always welcome when I returned home. At Our Lady of Mt Carmel Feast, the "grande festa" blocked party which defined most of the summers of my life, you could always see my Uncle Joe and Aunt Connie cutting the delicious slices of tomato pie that only taste that good in a church parking lot under a tent and bench.
Uncle Joe, Aunt Connie, and my cousins have always been first to see my kids and I when we visited, which felt more full of love for their being in our house. He's my dad's final immediate family member; their older brother and sister (my Uncle Sam and Aunt Carmella) passed on nearly 15 and 18 years ago, respectively. (My grandfather died late in 1991.)
I last wrote about Terri Schiavo, and today some of the pain the Schindler family feels has visited mine. Uncle Joe is been in coma in a Norristown hospital for a week following a massive stroke, just today breathing alone. I found out after contacting my sister on another matter; I asked Dad why it took so long to tell me. "Everyone was too excited," he said.
I'm thankful Uncle Joe is surrounded by loving family who want the best for him, and have always held to a faith which respects life. Tonight I pray for Terri Schiavo and my uncle, two people a generation apart loved by many, and awaiting their own miracle and the return of their lives. "Lazarus, come out!"
I'd sleep on the couch, awakening to make coffee before Uncle Joe drove up the back alley of my dad's house. He'd sit beside my dad and talk baseball, relatives, or the local morning's news from the Norristown Times Herald. It was a great way to start the morning and a reminder I was always welcome when I returned home. At Our Lady of Mt Carmel Feast, the "grande festa" blocked party which defined most of the summers of my life, you could always see my Uncle Joe and Aunt Connie cutting the delicious slices of tomato pie that only taste that good in a church parking lot under a tent and bench.
Uncle Joe, Aunt Connie, and my cousins have always been first to see my kids and I when we visited, which felt more full of love for their being in our house. He's my dad's final immediate family member; their older brother and sister (my Uncle Sam and Aunt Carmella) passed on nearly 15 and 18 years ago, respectively. (My grandfather died late in 1991.)
I last wrote about Terri Schiavo, and today some of the pain the Schindler family feels has visited mine. Uncle Joe is been in coma in a Norristown hospital for a week following a massive stroke, just today breathing alone. I found out after contacting my sister on another matter; I asked Dad why it took so long to tell me. "Everyone was too excited," he said.
I'm thankful Uncle Joe is surrounded by loving family who want the best for him, and have always held to a faith which respects life. Tonight I pray for Terri Schiavo and my uncle, two people a generation apart loved by many, and awaiting their own miracle and the return of their lives. "Lazarus, come out!"
FRIDAY, MARCH 18, 2005
It's Come Down To This...
Tonight Terri Schiavo lies in a hospital bed feeling the first serious hunger pangs after about six hours without nourishment. The true rot of what this has come to after 15 years is finally showing.
I wonder where the victory is here. Terri's husband, Michael Schiavo, has become the living face of the "culture of death" to a generation of Catholics in touch through EWTN, Relevant Radio and a technology-based culture pushing the faithful closer. Whatever his motives, you have to wonder about the zeal any one person would have to end the life of another. You have to think about the "mercy" portion of mercy killing when a responsive person slowly, painfully loses even what activity she has had over her years of suffering.
And what of Terri's parents? The Schindlers are by all accounts hard working people who deserve the fruits of retirement: a stable home, savings, travel, grandchildren. Instead they wished to take care of their invalid daughter for what (if their wish came true) would be the rest of their lives. Which is more an expression of love and sacrifice? What else but a parent's love for a child would bring them here?
If Terri dies the long, painful death predicted for her, it would be the largest public victory yet for Peter Singer, Jack Kevorkian, Hunter Thompson, the Hemlock Society and a entire subset of our culture seeking death as glorification (unlike the faithful, who treasure life on earth even as they await their "blessed hope." ) Forget about what cruelties Terri may speak of if she would ever speak again, or how far along Michael Schiavo has gone with his own life since Terri all but left it. Terri Schiavo has lived this long because of her parents' hope, which spread from a small group of dedicated Christians to the Vatican, Hollywood and the desks of President and Governor Bush. Terri Schiavo has begun her forced march to death because a man she placed her hope in 15 years ago gave that hope up. That was his right, but I only wish he would let her parents keep theirs.
John Michael Talbot emailed me today. I wanted him to know I gave my copy of his CD "Signatures," (which I received at a concert he gave a year ago) to Terri's family via their spiritual advisor, Father Thaddeus. I mention this only because of Terri's love for music, its use as proof she can respond to her environment, and the comfort the songs on that CD gave me (and will again). JMT was touched that his music could reach that suffering woman, and assured me his community would join in prayer for her. I said only I believed a miracle would happen, and expect one. I say now it could use a great soundtrack.
The battle rages on...talk to you later.
I wonder where the victory is here. Terri's husband, Michael Schiavo, has become the living face of the "culture of death" to a generation of Catholics in touch through EWTN, Relevant Radio and a technology-based culture pushing the faithful closer. Whatever his motives, you have to wonder about the zeal any one person would have to end the life of another. You have to think about the "mercy" portion of mercy killing when a responsive person slowly, painfully loses even what activity she has had over her years of suffering.
And what of Terri's parents? The Schindlers are by all accounts hard working people who deserve the fruits of retirement: a stable home, savings, travel, grandchildren. Instead they wished to take care of their invalid daughter for what (if their wish came true) would be the rest of their lives. Which is more an expression of love and sacrifice? What else but a parent's love for a child would bring them here?
If Terri dies the long, painful death predicted for her, it would be the largest public victory yet for Peter Singer, Jack Kevorkian, Hunter Thompson, the Hemlock Society and a entire subset of our culture seeking death as glorification (unlike the faithful, who treasure life on earth even as they await their "blessed hope." ) Forget about what cruelties Terri may speak of if she would ever speak again, or how far along Michael Schiavo has gone with his own life since Terri all but left it. Terri Schiavo has lived this long because of her parents' hope, which spread from a small group of dedicated Christians to the Vatican, Hollywood and the desks of President and Governor Bush. Terri Schiavo has begun her forced march to death because a man she placed her hope in 15 years ago gave that hope up. That was his right, but I only wish he would let her parents keep theirs.
John Michael Talbot emailed me today. I wanted him to know I gave my copy of his CD "Signatures," (which I received at a concert he gave a year ago) to Terri's family via their spiritual advisor, Father Thaddeus. I mention this only because of Terri's love for music, its use as proof she can respond to her environment, and the comfort the songs on that CD gave me (and will again). JMT was touched that his music could reach that suffering woman, and assured me his community would join in prayer for her. I said only I believed a miracle would happen, and expect one. I say now it could use a great soundtrack.
The battle rages on...talk to you later.
TUESDAY, MARCH 29, 2005
My Uncle Joe's Obituary and A Few More Reflections
My Uncle Joe was buried today in the same King of Prussia Catholic cemetary where my mom has been buried since 1991. He rests alongside my grandmother and many of the aunts, uncles, and friends who brought so much happiness and meaning to my life in Pennsylvania.
I wish I could have been there...kids, job, planes. I wish I could also have been at my uncle's 80th birthday the month before, when he was joined by generations of loving relatives and friends whose lives were better and lighter for his being with them. I hope the family who loved him so remembered that celebration even today and the closure it had to help bring. But I will see them soon enough when I come back to Bridgeport and my dad in May, paying them the attention they deserve. I've enclosed his obituary as printed in the Norristown, PA "Times Herald":
Joseph Pizza Sr. Joseph A. ``Joe'' Pizza, Sr., age 80, of Bridgeport, died peacefully in Temple University Hospital, Philadelphia on Wednesday, March 23, 2005 surrounded by his loving family.
Born in Bridgeport on Feb. 18, 1925, he was a son of the late John and Elmerinda (Pullo) Pizza. He is survived by his wife of 57 years, Concetta ``Connie'' (Marinari) Pizza; a son, Joseph A. Pizza, Jr. and his wife Jennifer of Dushore; two daughters: Theresa Wagner and her husband Robert J. of Bridgeport and Sandra Griffith and her husband Jerome of Bridgeport; seven grandchildren: Daniel and Michael Pizza, Mary Jo and Amanda Wagner, Marita, Jerry and Michael Griffith; a brother, Albert J. Pizza of Bridgeport and many nephews, nieces and cousins.
He was preceded in death by a sister, Carmella Rocchino and a brother, Samuel Pizza. Joe was a member of Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church, Bridgeport where he was an annual Feast Volunteer Worker. He and his family took joy in serving the parish at the tomato pie and meatball sandwich stand each year. He was also involved in community associations such as the Italian American War Veteran Club of Clifton Heights Post 16 for 41 years. After graduating from Bridgeport High School, class of 1943, Joe honored his country and his family by becoming a U.S. Army Veteran of WWII, serving in the 78th Infantry Division of Germany. He was the recipient of multiple medals, most notably the Purple Heart Medal. He actively supported the VFW Post 840.
A lifelong resident of Bridgeport, Joe owned and operated ``Joe's Auto Body Shop'' for approximately 30 years. In addition to his ``Purple Heart," Joe also had a heart of gold; bestowing friendship, generosity, and humor upon everyone that crossed his path or came in contact with him. As some of his hobbies, he enjoyed gardening and taking care of pets and stray animals.
Relatives and friends are invited to his funeral from The Bacchi-Courtney Funeral Home and Crematory, Ltd., 805 DeKalb Street (Route 202), Bridgeport, PA on Tuesday, March 29, 2005 at 9:20 a.m. followed by his Funeral Mass at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church, 502 Ford St., Bridgeport, PA at 10 a.m. His viewing will be Monday evening 6 to 9 p.m. and Tuesday morning 8:30 to 9:20 a.m., both at the funeral home. Interment will be in St. Augustine Cemetery, Upper Merion Township. Arrangements are by The Bacchi-Courtney Funeral Home and Crematory Ltd.
I've written much here as well of Terri Schiavo and her long, slow fade from life. You see the list of well wishers sold to a conservative direct marketing firm. Rev. Jesse Jackson, who many have seen as being an opportunist, visits the family and speaks some rare truth calling Terri's death "immoral" and "unnecessary." Finally, they speak even before she's breathed her last of an autopsy they claim will definitively reveal her condition and justify Michael's decision to end her life - and define his.
And then there's the New York Times/Newsweek's renowned Anna Quindlen, who wraps her alignment with the culture of death in honeyed, reasonable prose. There is no culture of life, she says, only the culture of your life, and of mine. I prefer Peggy Noonan's columns all week in the Wall Street Journal and would place her leading question to Ms. Quindlen: Did God create life, or didn' t He? Are you a child of God, or aren't you?
The Terri Schiavo circus, with its activist clowns and celebrity ringmasters, soon will pack and leave for another televised showdown between red and blue states, between government branches, between cultures of life and death. (One man, who obviously has missed the whole point, even threatened members of Schiavo's extended family in Philadelphia.) I only hope enough good people prepare themselves and their loved ones for the ineviatable end no matter how soon it may arrive.
Life should end as a gentle walk between sleep and eternity, so we still see the shadows of what a wonderful person did for everyone who knew him. It should not end with a young woman suffering a heart attack, or a gonzo author pulling his own trigger or even an infamous court lawyer losing his razor-sharp analytic mind to a brain tumor. Life should end, eternity begin as peacefully for everyone as it did for my Uncle Joe.
I wish I could have been there...kids, job, planes. I wish I could also have been at my uncle's 80th birthday the month before, when he was joined by generations of loving relatives and friends whose lives were better and lighter for his being with them. I hope the family who loved him so remembered that celebration even today and the closure it had to help bring. But I will see them soon enough when I come back to Bridgeport and my dad in May, paying them the attention they deserve. I've enclosed his obituary as printed in the Norristown, PA "Times Herald":
Joseph Pizza Sr. Joseph A. ``Joe'' Pizza, Sr., age 80, of Bridgeport, died peacefully in Temple University Hospital, Philadelphia on Wednesday, March 23, 2005 surrounded by his loving family.
Born in Bridgeport on Feb. 18, 1925, he was a son of the late John and Elmerinda (Pullo) Pizza. He is survived by his wife of 57 years, Concetta ``Connie'' (Marinari) Pizza; a son, Joseph A. Pizza, Jr. and his wife Jennifer of Dushore; two daughters: Theresa Wagner and her husband Robert J. of Bridgeport and Sandra Griffith and her husband Jerome of Bridgeport; seven grandchildren: Daniel and Michael Pizza, Mary Jo and Amanda Wagner, Marita, Jerry and Michael Griffith; a brother, Albert J. Pizza of Bridgeport and many nephews, nieces and cousins.
He was preceded in death by a sister, Carmella Rocchino and a brother, Samuel Pizza. Joe was a member of Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church, Bridgeport where he was an annual Feast Volunteer Worker. He and his family took joy in serving the parish at the tomato pie and meatball sandwich stand each year. He was also involved in community associations such as the Italian American War Veteran Club of Clifton Heights Post 16 for 41 years. After graduating from Bridgeport High School, class of 1943, Joe honored his country and his family by becoming a U.S. Army Veteran of WWII, serving in the 78th Infantry Division of Germany. He was the recipient of multiple medals, most notably the Purple Heart Medal. He actively supported the VFW Post 840.
A lifelong resident of Bridgeport, Joe owned and operated ``Joe's Auto Body Shop'' for approximately 30 years. In addition to his ``Purple Heart," Joe also had a heart of gold; bestowing friendship, generosity, and humor upon everyone that crossed his path or came in contact with him. As some of his hobbies, he enjoyed gardening and taking care of pets and stray animals.
Relatives and friends are invited to his funeral from The Bacchi-Courtney Funeral Home and Crematory, Ltd., 805 DeKalb Street (Route 202), Bridgeport, PA on Tuesday, March 29, 2005 at 9:20 a.m. followed by his Funeral Mass at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church, 502 Ford St., Bridgeport, PA at 10 a.m. His viewing will be Monday evening 6 to 9 p.m. and Tuesday morning 8:30 to 9:20 a.m., both at the funeral home. Interment will be in St. Augustine Cemetery, Upper Merion Township. Arrangements are by The Bacchi-Courtney Funeral Home and Crematory Ltd.
I've written much here as well of Terri Schiavo and her long, slow fade from life. You see the list of well wishers sold to a conservative direct marketing firm. Rev. Jesse Jackson, who many have seen as being an opportunist, visits the family and speaks some rare truth calling Terri's death "immoral" and "unnecessary." Finally, they speak even before she's breathed her last of an autopsy they claim will definitively reveal her condition and justify Michael's decision to end her life - and define his.
And then there's the New York Times/Newsweek's renowned Anna Quindlen, who wraps her alignment with the culture of death in honeyed, reasonable prose. There is no culture of life, she says, only the culture of your life, and of mine. I prefer Peggy Noonan's columns all week in the Wall Street Journal and would place her leading question to Ms. Quindlen: Did God create life, or didn' t He? Are you a child of God, or aren't you?
The Terri Schiavo circus, with its activist clowns and celebrity ringmasters, soon will pack and leave for another televised showdown between red and blue states, between government branches, between cultures of life and death. (One man, who obviously has missed the whole point, even threatened members of Schiavo's extended family in Philadelphia.) I only hope enough good people prepare themselves and their loved ones for the ineviatable end no matter how soon it may arrive.
Life should end as a gentle walk between sleep and eternity, so we still see the shadows of what a wonderful person did for everyone who knew him. It should not end with a young woman suffering a heart attack, or a gonzo author pulling his own trigger or even an infamous court lawyer losing his razor-sharp analytic mind to a brain tumor. Life should end, eternity begin as peacefully for everyone as it did for my Uncle Joe.
THURSDAY, MARCH 31, 2005
Loose Endings 3-31-05
It's nearly midnight at the end of an exhausting day. I spent most of it scrambling for one more contact, one more contract to squeeze in before the buzzer ended the first quarter. Our gracious employers fed us pizza and hot dogs and donuts to keep our spirits up and energy high, yet still you could only see frustration even as the books slowly closed on this strategic first quarter for my company.
It was a consistent theme throughout this month; our manager called it "March Madness" and punctuated every sale with a Dick Vitale-style basketball metaphor: "SWISH!" "ALLEY-OOP,""Buzzer-Beater!" Of course, having four contracts and getting one (maybe two) of them in closes you with enough brick shots, air balls and technical fouls to staff the 1972-73 Sixers reunion.
Things quickly jolt into perspective. By now, you know of Terri Schiavo's passing and despite it being expected for a long time, it still felt like a seismic shock. All deaths do. You feel for the parents who lost a child and battled federal, state and local governments and brought the Vatican and even Hollywood to their fight. (Side note: TV star Patricia Heaton, a member of "Feminists for Life" who spoke out for Terri Schiavo and against the foolish, foul-mouthed "Osbournes," is one cool chick.)
Post-mortem, who would Michael Schiavo's allies be? His lawyer, whose loopy sensibility combined New Age mysticism with huge cujones to seal Terri's fate. He somehow equated Michael's need to have his estranged wife die with James Meredith fighting George Wallace to enter Alabama University, then described a death from hunger and thirst in the false pastels of soft music and stuffed animals. This after Teri was refused Holy Communion today after receiving yesterday.
And the policemen arresting protesters at Woodside Hospise? They must now share lineage with the Roman soldiers at Golgatha 2000 years ago, violenting bending, breaking and shocking those who dared fight an unjust decision under the pretense "we are a country of laws and not of men." This does not justify this barbaric, unjust act; Raymond Arroyo correctly called it "demonic" tonight on EWTN. I only hope one among them walked out saying, "Truly this was an innocent..."
Michael Schiavo should know today the culture of death is done with him. He has been paid his 30 pieces of silver and fame for his betrayal, splitting with George Felos and his embarassingly false conversations with Larry King, Diane Sawyer TV's false gods. He was and is a puppet to Peter Singer, Ronald Crawford, and an objectivist philosophy, and will now know the contempt and ostracism handed but a few citizens society hasn't quite been able to forgive or forget (O.J. Simpson only among the most recent.) No one who physically or spiritually set foot near Pinellas Park can leave it unchanged.
The spotlight has already turned to the Vatican and our ailing Pope John Paul II, who today received last rights after a high fever and urinary tract infection. Every day he shows his public face to cheering young people he loves and built his papacy around, he defies Anna Quindlen and contemporaries claiming no culture of life. For the Holy Father and those willingly shepherded by him, the false term is "quality of life." His is the quality of life God gave him, and he will keep it until joining Terri Schiavo and a body of believers where all things are renewed.
The battle rages on...talk to you soon.
It was a consistent theme throughout this month; our manager called it "March Madness" and punctuated every sale with a Dick Vitale-style basketball metaphor: "SWISH!" "ALLEY-OOP,""Buzzer-Beater!" Of course, having four contracts and getting one (maybe two) of them in closes you with enough brick shots, air balls and technical fouls to staff the 1972-73 Sixers reunion.
Things quickly jolt into perspective. By now, you know of Terri Schiavo's passing and despite it being expected for a long time, it still felt like a seismic shock. All deaths do. You feel for the parents who lost a child and battled federal, state and local governments and brought the Vatican and even Hollywood to their fight. (Side note: TV star Patricia Heaton, a member of "Feminists for Life" who spoke out for Terri Schiavo and against the foolish, foul-mouthed "Osbournes," is one cool chick.)
Post-mortem, who would Michael Schiavo's allies be? His lawyer, whose loopy sensibility combined New Age mysticism with huge cujones to seal Terri's fate. He somehow equated Michael's need to have his estranged wife die with James Meredith fighting George Wallace to enter Alabama University, then described a death from hunger and thirst in the false pastels of soft music and stuffed animals. This after Teri was refused Holy Communion today after receiving yesterday.
And the policemen arresting protesters at Woodside Hospise? They must now share lineage with the Roman soldiers at Golgatha 2000 years ago, violenting bending, breaking and shocking those who dared fight an unjust decision under the pretense "we are a country of laws and not of men." This does not justify this barbaric, unjust act; Raymond Arroyo correctly called it "demonic" tonight on EWTN. I only hope one among them walked out saying, "Truly this was an innocent..."
Michael Schiavo should know today the culture of death is done with him. He has been paid his 30 pieces of silver and fame for his betrayal, splitting with George Felos and his embarassingly false conversations with Larry King, Diane Sawyer TV's false gods. He was and is a puppet to Peter Singer, Ronald Crawford, and an objectivist philosophy, and will now know the contempt and ostracism handed but a few citizens society hasn't quite been able to forgive or forget (O.J. Simpson only among the most recent.) No one who physically or spiritually set foot near Pinellas Park can leave it unchanged.
The spotlight has already turned to the Vatican and our ailing Pope John Paul II, who today received last rights after a high fever and urinary tract infection. Every day he shows his public face to cheering young people he loves and built his papacy around, he defies Anna Quindlen and contemporaries claiming no culture of life. For the Holy Father and those willingly shepherded by him, the false term is "quality of life." His is the quality of life God gave him, and he will keep it until joining Terri Schiavo and a body of believers where all things are renewed.
The battle rages on...talk to you soon.
TUESDAY, APRIL 05, 2005
Remembering Pope John Paul II
I remember where I was the late August day in 1978 when I heard Pope Paul VI had died. I’d returned home from the King of Prussia Plaza on the bus, which by then was the habit of a weekly mall shopping trips. I’d buy lunch, maybe a 45 or two and still have money for the ride back to Bridgeport.
I bought an 8-track tape that day (they were on the wane but still strong) and was about to plug in when I heard Andy Musser on the old WCAU-AM describing a Phils-Pirates baseball game. He spoke of the shock when earlier announcing the Holy Father’s passing and a lump came to my throat. It was the first time in my semi-adult lifetime (I was 1 ½ when JFK was assassinated) a leader had died.
Pope John Paul I’s election followed and the Church was excited again, even at the name he chose from his successors.. But when he died just over a month later, after one of the shortest papacies in history which started one of its longest conspiracy theories, my 16 year old ‘s sense of delinquency and cynicism crept in and I told friends, "The pope croaked."
After these dual aftershocks, Pope John Paul II’s election that October came as a refreshing surprise. Father Murray, our high school principal, interrupted Mr. Wagner’s junior year algebra class with the news, "We have a new Pope. He’s Polish…" To which Mr. Wagner, my algebra teacher and still one of my favorite, funniest teachers, cracked, "We should have got a German to clean things up in the Vatican…Pope Otto the First."
Little did he or any of us know how lucky we’d be the next 27 years to be blessed with this Holy Father’s exemplary life and legacy. After hearing tales of his trip to Poland again this week, it’s easy to speak of his steadfast, victorious fight against Communism in eastern Europe and the former USSR. After describing his many trips to America and the "rock star" welcome he always received, we’ve heard the Holy Father's equal dismay and discomfort over what author and missionary Glen Galtere would later call America’s SHIM (Secular, Humanistic, Individualistic and Materialistic) worldview.
I found the "rock star" analogy on John Paul II this week particularly amusing. Hit songs the week of Pope John Paul’s election included Donna Summer’s "MacArthur Park," Exile’s "Kiss You All Over," and Barry Manilow’s "Ready To Take a Chance Again." (The pontiff lived eternal truth and outlived a lot of kitsch culture. )
Pope John Paul II sat on St. Peter’s throne before the rise of the Internet, fax machines, cell phones, personal computers and the ever faster rise of communication. In connecting with youth, myself included, he led the cause for a new evangelization bringing modern technology to present and define the Church’s timeless, values. This led even to networks like Relevant Radio where classic radio formats were adapted to winning souls for Christ.
Catholic Christianity is a faith whose church’s stones are built from paradox; G.K. Chesterton’s masterpiece "Orthodoxy" overflows with them and Chesterton's own admission doesn't scratch the surface. But steadfastly defending life in all places and times for all reasons, emphatically opposing abortion, euthanasia, the death penalty and war, the Holy Father’s "culture of life" became the centerpiece of the Church’s teaching in the modern era. Despite what pretentious lightweights like Anna Quindlen may believe, Pope John Paul’s legacy right up to the insertion of his feeding tube (no small irony after Terri Schiavo’s death) and his closing days testified to a message he’d gave and lived across the globe. Ms. Quindlen, there IS a culture of life – Our life, not just your life and my life lived isolated and selfish. Pope John Paul II spoke to the dignity of all people, then to each individual's self-worth.
Sad to say, we also have a culture of death which rejoiced in victory and believed themselves steadfast over Mr. and Mrs. Schindler and their valiant fight to save their daughter, No doubt George Felos and his advocates are relieved their staunchest opponent no longer stares them down a continent away (though his words galvanize a pro-life movement and, rightly or wrong;y, make Terri Schiavo a martyr for change) Pope John Paul II, like Terri Schiavo, like the Savior he loved and served and shepherded a faith for most of his life, commanded the world's written words and attention when weakest and most silent.
Finally, a personal remembrance. I was lucky enough to be playing 1st chair trumpet in Bishop Kenrick’s High School band the crisp October day Pope John Paul II arrived at Philadelphia Airport, to say Mass and visit the city on his first US tour). I remember being searched at the game, German shepherds sniffing our bags, all the while our Napoleonic band director snarling "Everyone plays today..."
It was a thrilling moment as we started to play, despite Mr. Genovese literally playing the relentless drill instructor more than a month before we walked on that tarmac bandstand. (His bullying attitude during that preparation, summarized in his warning, "You guys don’t want to play? I’m gonna MAKE you play. And if this doesn’t get better every time we play it, all I have to say is watch out!" stayed with me for years afterward. )
The Holy Father waved to us all, gave rosaries to our drum majorette (a wonderful person named Kathy Campana I would love to know what happened to) and Cardinal Dougherty's major, and was in off in his car. Sister St. Elizabeth, who led our band that day, stood in the center of us before Mass at Logan Circle and said, "Today you are the envy of Philadelphia." Sister herself could be tyrannical at times, but that day as sunset washed that city she was right.
I think even then PJII’s appearance may have rubbed off on Jim Brennan, a curly haired trombone player and the Kenrick band’s resident party animal and ladies man in fall 1979. He later became a Catholic priest. The world mourns John Paul II even as he rejoices in heaven today.
I bought an 8-track tape that day (they were on the wane but still strong) and was about to plug in when I heard Andy Musser on the old WCAU-AM describing a Phils-Pirates baseball game. He spoke of the shock when earlier announcing the Holy Father’s passing and a lump came to my throat. It was the first time in my semi-adult lifetime (I was 1 ½ when JFK was assassinated) a leader had died.
Pope John Paul I’s election followed and the Church was excited again, even at the name he chose from his successors.. But when he died just over a month later, after one of the shortest papacies in history which started one of its longest conspiracy theories, my 16 year old ‘s sense of delinquency and cynicism crept in and I told friends, "The pope croaked."
After these dual aftershocks, Pope John Paul II’s election that October came as a refreshing surprise. Father Murray, our high school principal, interrupted Mr. Wagner’s junior year algebra class with the news, "We have a new Pope. He’s Polish…" To which Mr. Wagner, my algebra teacher and still one of my favorite, funniest teachers, cracked, "We should have got a German to clean things up in the Vatican…Pope Otto the First."
Little did he or any of us know how lucky we’d be the next 27 years to be blessed with this Holy Father’s exemplary life and legacy. After hearing tales of his trip to Poland again this week, it’s easy to speak of his steadfast, victorious fight against Communism in eastern Europe and the former USSR. After describing his many trips to America and the "rock star" welcome he always received, we’ve heard the Holy Father's equal dismay and discomfort over what author and missionary Glen Galtere would later call America’s SHIM (Secular, Humanistic, Individualistic and Materialistic) worldview.
I found the "rock star" analogy on John Paul II this week particularly amusing. Hit songs the week of Pope John Paul’s election included Donna Summer’s "MacArthur Park," Exile’s "Kiss You All Over," and Barry Manilow’s "Ready To Take a Chance Again." (The pontiff lived eternal truth and outlived a lot of kitsch culture. )
Pope John Paul II sat on St. Peter’s throne before the rise of the Internet, fax machines, cell phones, personal computers and the ever faster rise of communication. In connecting with youth, myself included, he led the cause for a new evangelization bringing modern technology to present and define the Church’s timeless, values. This led even to networks like Relevant Radio where classic radio formats were adapted to winning souls for Christ.
Catholic Christianity is a faith whose church’s stones are built from paradox; G.K. Chesterton’s masterpiece "Orthodoxy" overflows with them and Chesterton's own admission doesn't scratch the surface. But steadfastly defending life in all places and times for all reasons, emphatically opposing abortion, euthanasia, the death penalty and war, the Holy Father’s "culture of life" became the centerpiece of the Church’s teaching in the modern era. Despite what pretentious lightweights like Anna Quindlen may believe, Pope John Paul’s legacy right up to the insertion of his feeding tube (no small irony after Terri Schiavo’s death) and his closing days testified to a message he’d gave and lived across the globe. Ms. Quindlen, there IS a culture of life – Our life, not just your life and my life lived isolated and selfish. Pope John Paul II spoke to the dignity of all people, then to each individual's self-worth.
Sad to say, we also have a culture of death which rejoiced in victory and believed themselves steadfast over Mr. and Mrs. Schindler and their valiant fight to save their daughter, No doubt George Felos and his advocates are relieved their staunchest opponent no longer stares them down a continent away (though his words galvanize a pro-life movement and, rightly or wrong;y, make Terri Schiavo a martyr for change) Pope John Paul II, like Terri Schiavo, like the Savior he loved and served and shepherded a faith for most of his life, commanded the world's written words and attention when weakest and most silent.
Finally, a personal remembrance. I was lucky enough to be playing 1st chair trumpet in Bishop Kenrick’s High School band the crisp October day Pope John Paul II arrived at Philadelphia Airport, to say Mass and visit the city on his first US tour). I remember being searched at the game, German shepherds sniffing our bags, all the while our Napoleonic band director snarling "Everyone plays today..."
It was a thrilling moment as we started to play, despite Mr. Genovese literally playing the relentless drill instructor more than a month before we walked on that tarmac bandstand. (His bullying attitude during that preparation, summarized in his warning, "You guys don’t want to play? I’m gonna MAKE you play. And if this doesn’t get better every time we play it, all I have to say is watch out!" stayed with me for years afterward. )
The Holy Father waved to us all, gave rosaries to our drum majorette (a wonderful person named Kathy Campana I would love to know what happened to) and Cardinal Dougherty's major, and was in off in his car. Sister St. Elizabeth, who led our band that day, stood in the center of us before Mass at Logan Circle and said, "Today you are the envy of Philadelphia." Sister herself could be tyrannical at times, but that day as sunset washed that city she was right.
I think even then PJII’s appearance may have rubbed off on Jim Brennan, a curly haired trombone player and the Kenrick band’s resident party animal and ladies man in fall 1979. He later became a Catholic priest. The world mourns John Paul II even as he rejoices in heaven today.
SUNDAY, MAY 08, 2005
Sometimes it's easy forgetting to chart your life when you are heads-down living it, and that's where I've been the last month or so.
It's been a heady ride. I'm nearly two months now into a wonderful new relationship I could never have seen coming, especially after chasing butterflies for what seemed forever (and looking quite the fool doing it). I was able to take a once in a lifetime trip to Cape Town, South Africa and see one of the world's most stunningly beautiful cities in a country still defining itself amidst natural beauty. Finally, I've taken serious steps toward purchasing a new home, a thought impossible three years ago this month when it seemed everything and everyone I held close to me abandoned me.
How do you describe a month like this in a few paragraphs? I can tell you of Cape Town: it is a cosmpolitan city which, like many in the US, built its renaissance upon a waterfront and shopping district. It has parlayed its natural resources and outlawed history outside the family of nations into what I saw during my trip: a country and a people trying to define yet promote itself.
That's why prisoners today host tours on Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela spent nearly 20 years in prison and somehow wrote his manifesto and led an prisoner education effort under the noses and guns of South Africa's apartheid government. It's also why any resident of Cape Town will at the drop of a hat tell you what sites to see and restaurants to visit (as a few did during a grueling 23 hour plane ride to and from.) It's also why the port where prisoners were led to Robben Island is today a gift shop, featuring tee shirts and even Mandela's lithograph prints.
I got close-up looks at wild animals like baboons and penguins along the beaches at Cape Point and the Cape of Good Hope (not, as our helpful tour guide pointed out, exactly where the Indian and Pacific Oceans meet.) I got to taste some of the world's finest wines at three wineries along a bus tour, sleeping between to hold myself up from jet lag. I got time to spend with friends (my new love met me too late to join me for the trip and, to be fair, it would have been but our third date.) and felt a sense of comeraderie I only wish to keep.
It's been a heady ride. I'm nearly two months now into a wonderful new relationship I could never have seen coming, especially after chasing butterflies for what seemed forever (and looking quite the fool doing it). I was able to take a once in a lifetime trip to Cape Town, South Africa and see one of the world's most stunningly beautiful cities in a country still defining itself amidst natural beauty. Finally, I've taken serious steps toward purchasing a new home, a thought impossible three years ago this month when it seemed everything and everyone I held close to me abandoned me.
How do you describe a month like this in a few paragraphs? I can tell you of Cape Town: it is a cosmpolitan city which, like many in the US, built its renaissance upon a waterfront and shopping district. It has parlayed its natural resources and outlawed history outside the family of nations into what I saw during my trip: a country and a people trying to define yet promote itself.
That's why prisoners today host tours on Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela spent nearly 20 years in prison and somehow wrote his manifesto and led an prisoner education effort under the noses and guns of South Africa's apartheid government. It's also why any resident of Cape Town will at the drop of a hat tell you what sites to see and restaurants to visit (as a few did during a grueling 23 hour plane ride to and from.) It's also why the port where prisoners were led to Robben Island is today a gift shop, featuring tee shirts and even Mandela's lithograph prints.
I got close-up looks at wild animals like baboons and penguins along the beaches at Cape Point and the Cape of Good Hope (not, as our helpful tour guide pointed out, exactly where the Indian and Pacific Oceans meet.) I got to taste some of the world's finest wines at three wineries along a bus tour, sleeping between to hold myself up from jet lag. I got time to spend with friends (my new love met me too late to join me for the trip and, to be fair, it would have been but our third date.) and felt a sense of comeraderie I only wish to keep.
ONDAY, JANUARY 02, 2006
Where have I been since May 5?
Somewhere in my dad's house in Bridgeport, PA, lie several boxes of old poetry stapled together with construction paper. Together they form as close to a daily diary as a high-school age kid had the muster to put together. They talked of friends I'd known and argued with and loved in school, of my own personal shyness as I tried to form relationships with the opposite sex, even my first real attempts to have a personal, adult conversation with God. I tried to keep diaries ever since but life kept moving faster than my ability or clockspeed to write it.
Which brings me to a New Year and my first real writing here since May (and even that was a draft blog I finally committed to the site.) I spent the last nine months loving and being loved by a beautiful person named Michelle. I first knew her as a co-volunteer in children's liturgy (her expertise was in "crowd control.") and came to know her as a lover starting on Palm Sunday 2005. Love came to me while I shook my head confused over the end of one relationship, and in frustration over another which failed to start. She is a beautiful, radiant, energetic person who brings joy to my life each day and made the sadder things I write about here not just bearable, but the logical extension of the road I had to take.
Other parts of my year didn't go quite right. I had two good years at my work and tried to leverage that success to purchase a home, just at the time every would-be Yuppie boomer discovered they wanted to live in Southwest Florida and made affordable housing, in one columnist's words, "go the way of the nickel beer.") Looking back, it may have been the best thing and I still believe home ownership can be in my future.
I went from being an honored, awarded representative of my company, with a solid reputation, into one who will learn tomorrow whether he'll still be working there. Some of this was my doing;I drowned in a list of accounts which more than doubled while spending six weeks maintaining an existing base while my outside rep had a child. This summer was the first and only time I hated coming to work each day, something I thought impossible. I chose the path I did (reassignment) so I could stay and not let someone who told me "Sales is not in your DNA" vindicate that incorrect view. But when I hear another former sales partner tell my replacement, "Tony had a good heart," it is hard not to look at it as code for, "He tried, but...."
The highlight of the year for me was not the trip to South Africa described in a previous post, even though it was a rich, wonderful trip for me. It was my return to PA with Michelle for Thanksgiving with my father and sister, and my 25th High School reunion. Seeing old friends again, introducing someone I love deeply to much of my past life and having her embrace it, was a great beginning to the most fulfilling Christmas season I have ever had.
I'm a little paunchier than I was a year ago, (although I'm changing health clubs to elininate that extra holiday poundage.) I'm a little grayer, a little wiser for butterflies I chased and didn't catch, fuller for comeraderie I enjoyed from pro-life prayer groups in Sarasota to the Knights of Columbus to Relay for Life. I'm trying to do what CS Lewis suggested; wear the mask and clothes of a good person until my face and myself conform to them and I become it. I'm a work in progress, with much even now to thank God for, and look forward to Michelle and I layering our love into a new year.
Which brings me to a New Year and my first real writing here since May (and even that was a draft blog I finally committed to the site.) I spent the last nine months loving and being loved by a beautiful person named Michelle. I first knew her as a co-volunteer in children's liturgy (her expertise was in "crowd control.") and came to know her as a lover starting on Palm Sunday 2005. Love came to me while I shook my head confused over the end of one relationship, and in frustration over another which failed to start. She is a beautiful, radiant, energetic person who brings joy to my life each day and made the sadder things I write about here not just bearable, but the logical extension of the road I had to take.
Other parts of my year didn't go quite right. I had two good years at my work and tried to leverage that success to purchase a home, just at the time every would-be Yuppie boomer discovered they wanted to live in Southwest Florida and made affordable housing, in one columnist's words, "go the way of the nickel beer.") Looking back, it may have been the best thing and I still believe home ownership can be in my future.
I went from being an honored, awarded representative of my company, with a solid reputation, into one who will learn tomorrow whether he'll still be working there. Some of this was my doing;I drowned in a list of accounts which more than doubled while spending six weeks maintaining an existing base while my outside rep had a child. This summer was the first and only time I hated coming to work each day, something I thought impossible. I chose the path I did (reassignment) so I could stay and not let someone who told me "Sales is not in your DNA" vindicate that incorrect view. But when I hear another former sales partner tell my replacement, "Tony had a good heart," it is hard not to look at it as code for, "He tried, but...."
The highlight of the year for me was not the trip to South Africa described in a previous post, even though it was a rich, wonderful trip for me. It was my return to PA with Michelle for Thanksgiving with my father and sister, and my 25th High School reunion. Seeing old friends again, introducing someone I love deeply to much of my past life and having her embrace it, was a great beginning to the most fulfilling Christmas season I have ever had.
I'm a little paunchier than I was a year ago, (although I'm changing health clubs to elininate that extra holiday poundage.) I'm a little grayer, a little wiser for butterflies I chased and didn't catch, fuller for comeraderie I enjoyed from pro-life prayer groups in Sarasota to the Knights of Columbus to Relay for Life. I'm trying to do what CS Lewis suggested; wear the mask and clothes of a good person until my face and myself conform to them and I become it. I'm a work in progress, with much even now to thank God for, and look forward to Michelle and I layering our love into a new year.
SUNDAY, MAY 21, 2006
Way Down The Mississippi, Down to New Orleans
Having some rare hours free on a Sunday afternoon, I caught a quick gym workout when I heard Ray Nagin had been re-elected mayor of New Orleans. The same Ray Nagin dressed as a would-be Willie Wonka on tee shirts throughout NOLA's French quarter, starring in "Nagin and the Chocolate City."
Absolutely amazing.
All this after my beloved and I returned two weeks ago from the second weekend of NO's Jazz and Heritage Festival, which this year was as much an act of defiance as celebration for the city's music and culture. The big names showed up: Keith Urban gave a rollicking set for what seemed to be a sea of teenagers and young adults, walking through the festival crowd as he sang "You'll Think of Me" and "Days Gone By." He closed the song by quoting with lines from Bruce Springsteen's "The Rising," continuing a theme the Boss himself established with his stunning Jazz Fest appearance the week before.
Jimmy Buffett, one of the most reliable concert attractions ever, graced the stage Saturday afternoon amidst reports of storms heading to New Orleans. The storms broke in two and went around the city, just as Jimmy said he was promised by two nuns he'd seen that morning in the Quarter. He then sang "City of New Orleans," partly to salute the city and for closure after performing the song during his legendary performance at Chicago's Wriglet Field. He worked from there through his classics, mixing New Orleans references in like Chef Paul's spice in songs like "I Will Work for Gumbo," "Come Monday," "Brown Eyed Girl," and a jamming version of Jerry Garcia's "Deal." And yes, the crowd yelled for salt during "Margaritaville," and finned to the left and to the right.
Paul Simon was the key national attraction for Sunday, with warm versions of early Simon & Garfunkel and solo hits ("Slip Slidin' Away," "Me and Julio," a rollicking "Cecilia." He also invited local heroes Irma Thomas, Allen Touissant, and Buckwheat Zydeco to play with him on "Bridge Over Troubled Water," and "Graceland." His fine set had even more impact when it was announced festival closer Fats Domino would not be able to play due to ill health.
The city's vibrant local music scene was also well represented. The Dirty Dozen Brass Band mixed classic New Orleans drumline with R&B and hip hop as they worked through "Feets Don't Fail Me Now," AWB's "Pick Up The Pieces," and the stalwart "When The Saints Go Marching In." Marcia Ball revved it up in the blues tent, delivering a powerhouse version of Randy Newman's "Louisiana 1927" surrounded by Jerry Lee Lewis-style boogie woogie piano. Only Little Feat's set fell flat, with the exception of Buffett helping out on "Dixie Chicken."
It seemed the town, still trying to rebuild, put its best face on for its visitors. People smiled when we biked by washed out neighborhoods asking how we were enjoying the Fest. The food was as delicious as ever, not only at tourist stalwarts like Emeril's and the Court of Two Sisters but along stands at the festival itself. All this even as the piles of trash and abandoned cars remind you again of the punishment New Orleans suffered (shocking even to someone like yours truly who endured Hurricane Charlie in 2004 and Wilma in 2005, with another hurricane season set to arrive in two weeks.
We made many friends, and shared music reviews with them as we met for morning coffee or an evening glass of wine. We heard a lot of great music, not only on the Jazz Fest stages but a superb gospel show Saturday night featuring the legendary Five Blind Boys of Alabama. We enjoyed delicious food (and even saw the celebrity chef, Emeril, bam it through.) And we biked everywhere we needed to go in between to burn it all off. In the end, Michelle and I now know what it means to miss New Orleans and are thinking about where to go next and how soon we can come back. She said it best: "They move when the music plays. They're my kind of people."
Absolutely amazing.
All this after my beloved and I returned two weeks ago from the second weekend of NO's Jazz and Heritage Festival, which this year was as much an act of defiance as celebration for the city's music and culture. The big names showed up: Keith Urban gave a rollicking set for what seemed to be a sea of teenagers and young adults, walking through the festival crowd as he sang "You'll Think of Me" and "Days Gone By." He closed the song by quoting with lines from Bruce Springsteen's "The Rising," continuing a theme the Boss himself established with his stunning Jazz Fest appearance the week before.
Jimmy Buffett, one of the most reliable concert attractions ever, graced the stage Saturday afternoon amidst reports of storms heading to New Orleans. The storms broke in two and went around the city, just as Jimmy said he was promised by two nuns he'd seen that morning in the Quarter. He then sang "City of New Orleans," partly to salute the city and for closure after performing the song during his legendary performance at Chicago's Wriglet Field. He worked from there through his classics, mixing New Orleans references in like Chef Paul's spice in songs like "I Will Work for Gumbo," "Come Monday," "Brown Eyed Girl," and a jamming version of Jerry Garcia's "Deal." And yes, the crowd yelled for salt during "Margaritaville," and finned to the left and to the right.
Paul Simon was the key national attraction for Sunday, with warm versions of early Simon & Garfunkel and solo hits ("Slip Slidin' Away," "Me and Julio," a rollicking "Cecilia." He also invited local heroes Irma Thomas, Allen Touissant, and Buckwheat Zydeco to play with him on "Bridge Over Troubled Water," and "Graceland." His fine set had even more impact when it was announced festival closer Fats Domino would not be able to play due to ill health.
The city's vibrant local music scene was also well represented. The Dirty Dozen Brass Band mixed classic New Orleans drumline with R&B and hip hop as they worked through "Feets Don't Fail Me Now," AWB's "Pick Up The Pieces," and the stalwart "When The Saints Go Marching In." Marcia Ball revved it up in the blues tent, delivering a powerhouse version of Randy Newman's "Louisiana 1927" surrounded by Jerry Lee Lewis-style boogie woogie piano. Only Little Feat's set fell flat, with the exception of Buffett helping out on "Dixie Chicken."
It seemed the town, still trying to rebuild, put its best face on for its visitors. People smiled when we biked by washed out neighborhoods asking how we were enjoying the Fest. The food was as delicious as ever, not only at tourist stalwarts like Emeril's and the Court of Two Sisters but along stands at the festival itself. All this even as the piles of trash and abandoned cars remind you again of the punishment New Orleans suffered (shocking even to someone like yours truly who endured Hurricane Charlie in 2004 and Wilma in 2005, with another hurricane season set to arrive in two weeks.
We made many friends, and shared music reviews with them as we met for morning coffee or an evening glass of wine. We heard a lot of great music, not only on the Jazz Fest stages but a superb gospel show Saturday night featuring the legendary Five Blind Boys of Alabama. We enjoyed delicious food (and even saw the celebrity chef, Emeril, bam it through.) And we biked everywhere we needed to go in between to burn it all off. In the end, Michelle and I now know what it means to miss New Orleans and are thinking about where to go next and how soon we can come back. She said it best: "They move when the music plays. They're my kind of people."
The Week After
It's been a week now since my father's funeral; I've been back at work since Tuesday morning and slowly beginning to adjust to life without benefit of my dad's voice, let alone his guidance. Each day, each incident of my life brought me a story my dad told, or something which happened to him, or even a funny line he'd say which sounded silly out of anyone else. All the while, I've felt his influence on my life and how much I owed him.
He was always one to chide me for worrying. So it was when I had a lot to worry about this week; two of my accounts at my company (where renewals were king) told me the day before I left they'd sign new agreements. When I returned, they'd changed their minds; one due to budget and the other because ("We don't think we'll need you next year." Perhaps I should have stirred up that company's waters with old fasioned anxiety questions, although my style has always been to serve, await, then create my sales opportunities.)
Friday was an important day. My daughter Alex had a girlfriend stay over for the night. My girlfriend Michelle, an energetic angel throughout my family and work heartbreaks, came over and we shared pizza, and talk of my dad and toilet humor and all kinds of dinner conversation before settling down to a Disney DVD. It was the resumption of a ritual we've enjoyed nearly from the time Michelle came into my life nearly 1 1/2 years ago, one which has brought my children closer to her and started a long awaited process of making us permanent.
Saturday was a day for comforting and being comforted. I'd spoken to my sister and to Franny Chebovitch, the women who together and individually took care of my dad's daily needs and personal companionship. They need prayer even now as they are still trying to adjust to the space my dad filled in their lives. "He was my father, my child and my companion," my sister said. "Imagine if, God forbid, you lost Dad, Michelle and the children at once and you'd know what that felt like." I knew what she meant and shuddered. Franny still spoke actively of the final day of my dad's life and the care she is giving a neighbor suffering from cancer. She speaks sadly of the day God will take her, and I only told her God has a purpose for her staying longer. Perhaps her cooking chicken for that sick neighbor was that very reason.
Father Stan Dombrowksi, a wonderful man who is pastor of my church (St. Cecilia's in Fort Myers) lost his mom earlier this year. I was fortunate enough to share in that Mass, a celebration of the woman his family called "The Queen Mum" featuring a recipe of her classic pound cake. I came home on a rainy Saturday afternoon and found this kind note from him, which I'll close with here:
"Dear Tony,
How saddened I was to hear of the death of your father. I know how difficult it can be to lose someone you love, and so I ask God to give you the strength, grace, and courage to cope with the loss of your Dad. I also offer some thoughts from St. Francis de Sales concerning death as a source of consolation:
"We have a way of referring to death as a passing, and to the dead as departed. It simply means that for human beings death is a passing from one life to another; to die is but to depart from the limitations of mortality to achieve immortality."
"What becomes of starlight when the sun appears on the horizon? It is not destroyed, to be sure, it is caught and absorbed into the sun's greater light."
I believe with St. Francis that your Dad has passed from this life to the fullness of life in Christ Jesus and that his light and countenance has not been diminished but rather absorbed into the greater light of Christ Jesus himself. He not only lives but is an eternal light unto us all.
Please be assured of my love and prayers at this time.
God bless and comfort you,
Fr. Stan"
He was always one to chide me for worrying. So it was when I had a lot to worry about this week; two of my accounts at my company (where renewals were king) told me the day before I left they'd sign new agreements. When I returned, they'd changed their minds; one due to budget and the other because ("We don't think we'll need you next year." Perhaps I should have stirred up that company's waters with old fasioned anxiety questions, although my style has always been to serve, await, then create my sales opportunities.)
Friday was an important day. My daughter Alex had a girlfriend stay over for the night. My girlfriend Michelle, an energetic angel throughout my family and work heartbreaks, came over and we shared pizza, and talk of my dad and toilet humor and all kinds of dinner conversation before settling down to a Disney DVD. It was the resumption of a ritual we've enjoyed nearly from the time Michelle came into my life nearly 1 1/2 years ago, one which has brought my children closer to her and started a long awaited process of making us permanent.
Saturday was a day for comforting and being comforted. I'd spoken to my sister and to Franny Chebovitch, the women who together and individually took care of my dad's daily needs and personal companionship. They need prayer even now as they are still trying to adjust to the space my dad filled in their lives. "He was my father, my child and my companion," my sister said. "Imagine if, God forbid, you lost Dad, Michelle and the children at once and you'd know what that felt like." I knew what she meant and shuddered. Franny still spoke actively of the final day of my dad's life and the care she is giving a neighbor suffering from cancer. She speaks sadly of the day God will take her, and I only told her God has a purpose for her staying longer. Perhaps her cooking chicken for that sick neighbor was that very reason.
Father Stan Dombrowksi, a wonderful man who is pastor of my church (St. Cecilia's in Fort Myers) lost his mom earlier this year. I was fortunate enough to share in that Mass, a celebration of the woman his family called "The Queen Mum" featuring a recipe of her classic pound cake. I came home on a rainy Saturday afternoon and found this kind note from him, which I'll close with here:
"Dear Tony,
How saddened I was to hear of the death of your father. I know how difficult it can be to lose someone you love, and so I ask God to give you the strength, grace, and courage to cope with the loss of your Dad. I also offer some thoughts from St. Francis de Sales concerning death as a source of consolation:
"We have a way of referring to death as a passing, and to the dead as departed. It simply means that for human beings death is a passing from one life to another; to die is but to depart from the limitations of mortality to achieve immortality."
"What becomes of starlight when the sun appears on the horizon? It is not destroyed, to be sure, it is caught and absorbed into the sun's greater light."
I believe with St. Francis that your Dad has passed from this life to the fullness of life in Christ Jesus and that his light and countenance has not been diminished but rather absorbed into the greater light of Christ Jesus himself. He not only lives but is an eternal light unto us all.
Please be assured of my love and prayers at this time.
God bless and comfort you,
Fr. Stan"
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