Today’s epistle

—1) How can I let this go by?
—News-item on the 6 a.m. NPR news from Dubya-Hex-Hex-High:
“Stage collapses at Christian-Rock concert injuring many.”
Christian-Rock? Ain’t that an oxymoron? In the world I grew up in, rock-n-roll music was of-the-Devil.
Fans were reportedly dancing in a Christian mosh-pit.
Wait just one cotton-pickin’ minute. Dancing was of-the-Devil too.
And how, pray tell, in the wide, wide world can a mosh-pit be Christian?
I suppose them fans were a-shakin’ their booties for Jesus.
So the stage collapses at a Christian-Rock concert.
Sounds like a sign to me.
Jesus returns, and boy is he mad........

—2) Not a plasma-baby this time.....
.....But at the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA.
(When have I ever walked outta that place without material? —Marcy, it’s everywhere.)
I’m on a treadmill, yesterday morning (Friday, April 25, 2008).
Some have “cardio-theater;” a small flat-screen TV you can watch while exercising.
No sound. It’s either close-captioned or install your own ear-buds.
I’m on a cardio-theater treadmill, but I have the TV off. The one next to me is on.
A young couple is on an empty Pacific beach at dusk, gorgeous sunset behind them, their faces lit by a tiny flickering campfire of driftwood.
“It all comes down to just us, baby,” says Studley, close-captioned.
“Not if I can help it,” says stunning female eye-candy.
“99% of the humans on this planet shouldn’t exist,” says Studley. “It’s up to us to recreate the species.”
“Not if I can help it,” female eye-candy repeats.
“You’ll be back,” Studley asserts. “I guarantee it.”
“Not in my birthday-suit!” eye-candy says.
(Fade to black. Cut to ad.)
Nancy Pelosi and Newt Gingrich are sitting together on a cushy leather sofa in front of our nation’s capitol.
“Hi, I’m Nancy Pelosi; current Speaker-of-the-House, and a life-long Democrat.”
“Hi, I’m Newt Gingrich; former Speaker-of-the-House, and a life-long Republican.”
“We don’t agree on much,” Pelosi says; “but we do agree on one thing.”
“And what’s that?” Gingrich asks.
“You tell ‘em, Newt,” says Pelosi.
“And that’s saving the planet,” Gingrich exclaims.
Suddenly they are hip-deep in the fast-rising Potomac, awash in algae, slime, and floating mcKartons.
I’m sorry, but Sharpton and Robertson were better.

—3) Open-House......
....yesterday afternoon (Friday, April 25, 2008) at the mighty Mezz.
All because longtime reporter Kathie Meredith is retiring after 40 years with the Messenger.
A retirement party, more-or-less, although it’s structured as an open-house to allow readers to participate.
So, a chance to see some of the greatest people I ever knew, like the webmaster, the so-called “Hasidic-Jew,” and Boss-Man, K-Man (Frisch), Poobah (Marky-Mark), and “‘pyooter guru.”
I did stuff for Meredith; my hated Night-Spots file for her Steppin Out magazine. It was always pulling teeth, despite being a free ad. It always took way too much time, and I felt I was shorting it, but Meredith seemed pleased. —I told Frisch at a job-appraisal I thought Night-Spots might cause my retirement; and it sorta did. I hated it, but liked seeing it in print. By my doing it, Meredith wasn’t doing it on top of everything else she was doing, which probably would have blown a gourd.
(When I retired, Meredith had to do it herself until they found someone else to do it — Marky-Mark’s daughter. Looking at it, it’s still pretty much my ‘pyooter-file. —Meredith often had to cut the abomination I filed.)
So I walked in and was immediately glad-handed by the so-called “Hasidic-Jew,” then the webmaster, who I was awfully glad to see.
I haven’t seen these people for months — no garden, at the moment.
“You look great,” said the webmaster.
“Well, YMCA; and retirement, which means time to do the YMCA. I’m no longer driving a desk,” I said.
After a few minutes, I walked into the old newsroom, and ended up facing four people; me alone on one side, and the four across from me.
“I feel like I’m holding court,” I said. “I seem to have attracted an audience.”
“Are yaz all gathered here eagerly awaiting some snide remark, that makes yaz all laugh?”
“Hi, Grady,” someone bellowed in passing. “Boy, I sure miss Grady,” I heard someone whisper. “This place is no longer any fun without Grady.”
“No one to ask obscure questions to about railroading,” said the so-called “Hasidic-Jew.”
“‘I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter’ is not butter,” and “in case of death, please contact your physician immediately,” I said, reprising some of the crazed insanity we once bounced around the newsroom.
I also saw the all-powerful Tim Belknap; one of about seven editors at the mighty Mezz, and like me a car-guy. Belknap is one of the dreaded “Ne’er-do-Wells,” and responds to my epistles nearly every day.
Rikki VanKamp, the chief Messenger photographer, was running around taking pictures. “One of these days that cat of yours is gonna demand royalties,” I said. Pictures of her cat have appeared many times in the Messenger.
“Yo Joy,” I shouted. “Don’t leave without saying hello.”
Joy was across the room, and seemed to be headed out the door.
Joy (Daggett — retired) was the fix-it lady at the Messenger when I started, and is the one that hired me despite my being a stroke-survivor.
“I still say this was the best job I ever had,” I told her.
“And that was because the Messenger was a class-act.”
She said she had just talked to Frank Brown, the head of paste-up when I started, and that I should address him as “a horse’s ass.” (Seems Frank had already left.)
“It’s about time,” I said to Meredith as I headed out. Meredith was older than me, although only slightly.
“If ya collect nearly as much in retirement as when ya were working, why work?” I asked.
Nearly everyone there were Messenger-people; only a few weren’t.

“Dubya-Hex-Hex-High” is WXXI-FM, 91.5, the classical-music radio-station in Rochester we listen to.

“Plasma-babies” are what my loudmouthed macho brother-in-Boston calls all high-definition wide/flat-screen TVs. Other technologies beside plasma are available, but he calls them all “plasma-babies.”

“Marcy” is my number-one ne’er-do-well — she was the first I was e-mailing stuff to. Marcy and I worked in adjacent cubicles at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired. A picture of her is in this blog at Conclave of Ne’er-Do-Wells. Marcy married Bryan Mahoney (ex-reporter from the Messenger newspaper), and together they live near Boston. (Both Marcy and Mahoney keep blogs — Marcy’s is Playtime at Hazmat.) —She asked me once how I observed so much insanity to report. “Marcy, it’s everywhere,” I answered. —I also told her to “marry someone that makes ya laugh,” and she did.

The “mighty Mezz” (“Messenger”) is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over two years ago. Best job I ever had.

“The webmaster” was my nickname for Matt Ried at the Messenger newspaper, who tended the newspaper’s web-site, as did I before I retired. But he was the leader; and as far as I know, still is.

The “Hasidic-Jew” is L. David Wheeler, an editor at the Messenger newspaper, and also a Houghton grad (‘91). —Upon seeing a photograph of Wheeler, my ever-tolerant sister in south Floridy declared he looked like a Hasidic Jew. (Others are “Boss-Man” [Robert Matson (“MATT-sin”), Executive Editor], also a Houghton grad, “K-Man” [Kevin Frisch (“Frish”), Managing Editor], and “Poobah” [“Marky-Mark;” Mark Syverud (“SYE-ver-ud”)] now retired.) —Syverud was once an editor, and manager. —“‘Pyooter guru” was the Messenger IT guy.

The “Night-Spots” file was a listing of local night-clubs with live music.

RE: “No garden, at the moment........” —Last summer I delivered excess produce from our garden to the Messenger; as I’ve done for years.

“Grady” was my nickname at the Messenger newspaper. See blurb above right.

RE: “No one to ask obscure questions to about railroading......” —I’m a railfan; have been since I was a kid.

RE: “‘I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter’ is not butter.....” is something my wife’s aged aunt once said trying to fry something.

RE: “The all-powerful Tim Belknap.......” —Tim Belknap is an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper; one of about seven. I once posted something by Belknap, and my brother-in-Boston loudly claimed Belknap was the whole and onliest reason the Messenger was so reprehensible; unaware the paper has at least seven editors, and Belknap is toward the bottom. Belknap like me is a car-guy, so we continue to keep in contact.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993.