Re-run Sunday: Sins of the Sabbath

Is working on Sunday a sin? The Bible says so. Is blogging? The Bible doesn't say. Here's a post from March 2011 about the topic. I don't know whether it's a true sin or not, but I don't think you or I should do any today. Just to be safe.

I spent Saturday deciding on my preferred Sunday sin. What would it be? Theft? Adultery? Murder?

Worse. I thought I’d get up on the sabbath and pound out a blog post.

The act, according to the Bible, will doom me to hell.

Go ahead and heap scorn upon the content here, but wouldn’t sending me to hell for blogging be like sending Al Capone to the pen for tax evasion?

Yet, it’s right there in the Revised Standard Version of my King James Bible; Exodus 20, verse 8: “Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days you shall labor, and do all your work.”

Not only that, it goes on to say it is our sacred obligation to see to it that our sons, our daughters, our cattle, our slaves and any traveler who comes near us is prevented from doing any toil.

Frankly, that last bit sounds like a lot of work.

I’ve been troubled by the Fourth Commandment ever since reading A.J. Jacobs’s 2007 book, “The Year of Living Biblically.” In it Jacobs follows all the arcane and obscure laws in the Bible. It’s uproarious fun mingled amidst a gentle message about how our lives could be better if we really did try to follow the basic tenets of the Bible.

I remember being struck by his devotion to not working on the sabbath. It gave him great serenity, he said, and has subsequently written he still does no work on Sundays.

I met Jacobs when he was assigning stories for Esquire and he was kind to me. In my book (unpublished, of course), that makes him a sort of holy man.

But when he decided to cease sabbath work, he was accepting manna from some prestigious publisher so that taints the whole endeavor. He was, in essence, getting paid to not work on Sundays, a heavenly loophole if ever there was one.

The idea, however, never left me and now it troubles me every weekend.

What is work?

I know real men who do real work in factories and if the boss says so they do it on Sundays for time and a half. These men sneer at me when they here me talk about work. They no more think writing is work than, say, butterfly collecting.

Who am I to argue? I’ve never collected butterflies, but it can’t pay much worse than writing. Plus, I can’t imagine a butterfly ever calling me up to scream I’ve misquoted him.

Still, I try not to write on Sundays.

You know what that leaves? The honey-do list.

I have gutters to clean, creaky screen doors to fix, bathroom floors that need re-tiling and all the seasonal chores that go hand-in-hand with homeownership, marriage and fatherhood.

Each of those chores fits my definition of real work because I detest doing them and can’t do any of it while sitting zombie-like on the couch and watching sports.

But I’d catch holy hell if I said, “Sorry, babe, I cannot prepare the flower boxes for spring planting. It’s Sunday and the labor might anger the Almighty.”

Talk about damned if you don’t, damned if you do.

And what about the holy part? Does that mean we’re supposed to spend the whole day in church? Heck, I fidget when the service runs longer than 57 minutes.

Is flying kites with my daughters holy enough? I can’t think of a more soulful exercise on a Sunday.

It’s all very troubling and very vague. And why is that commandment before murder, adultery, theft, lying, coveting and being sweet to mom and dad?

I think the only safe and wise choice for a guy like me is to spend the day on the golf course.

I have to figure 18 holies is the perfect solution to avoiding the sins of the sabbath.

Blogger tastelessness? Not here

(603 words)

Sometimes someone says something about something I’ve written that causes me to shelve my topical plans to address their comment.

Happened again yesterday.

So if you’re clicking in today to read if I’ll be in Pittsburgh tonight to attend the Barry Manilow concert and why that wouldn’t be without precedent, sorry, you’ll just have to wait until Monday.

Today I need to respond to a charge that yesterday’s post was tasteless.

Was it?

Hell, no. 

It was a 702-word essay headlined, “That’s MISTER Shrapnel to you!” Three days after the Boston Marathon bombing, I thought it was appropriate to share the nugget that shrapnel was named after British artillery officer Henry Shrapnel (1761-1842). I had no idea and thought it was interesting enough to warrant a timely post.

I fancied it a life-affirming spin on how names become words and how I’m glad nothing I do will 200 years from now lead anyone to say someone was killed by a deadly shower of rodell.

Was it too soon? Too irreverent? Was the tone too what Father Francis Mulcahy might call “jocular?”

In hindsight, yes.

Do I regret it?

Just a bit. Not much. Hardly at all.

I am of the mindset that if we do not move on right away after every tragedy, we’ll never move at all.

Our national tragedies happen with such breakneck rapidity, to not immediately move on would result in our being paralyzed by perpetual grieving.

By any decent standard, we should still be utterly bereft over Sandy Hook. No one should be working, attending ball games, laughing in coffee shops -- doing anything -- until we as a nation resolve that such horror will never happen again.

But, geez, that seems awfully difficult, doesn’t it? Certainly it does for the esteemed men and women of the United States Senate.

So in lieu of working solutions, we need to live every day like the Whos in Whoville did the very morning the Grinch stole Christmas. We must cheerfully persevere understanding bad things are going to happen and that we will always roll with all the punches.

It’s now more than ever imperative to celebrate every day we’re alive.

If that’s a controversial position, so be it. I’ll have to live with it even as anyone accusing me of doing anything controversial feels to me like wearing a shirt that’s too tight around the neck. It makes me uncomfortable.

This puts me at odds with many other writers who aspire to being edgy.

They assume the worst in everyone. They fan conspiracy theories. They fixate on daily doom.

In a world full of so much opinionated edginess, I like to think my blog provides a humble respite from all the contrived controversies intended to stir up opposing comments and agitated readers.

I could never pull that off. Wouldn’t want to even if I was assured it would lead to widespread exposure.

On the contrary, I aspire to this being a near daily repository for feel-good platitudes about life and love.

I guess that kind of makes me the Barry Manilow of bloggers!

Either way, I’m grateful to you and anyone who takes the time to read my stuff. I hope you’ll all stay with me even on days when you read something here that might challenge one of your sacred cows. And that goes for all you non-Hindu readers, too.

I promise to try and keep it fair and above the fray -- except on days when the fray looks fun.

So thank you. I hope none of you ever goes away.

‘cause I can’t smile without you.

Related . . .

• I cry, I fart; more on Newtown

• Making bad days better

That's MISTER Shrapnel to you!

(702 words)

Shrapnel killed three people at the Boston Marathon. Shrapnel killed thousands in the Iraq War. Shrapnel’s been killing ‘em by the millions since clear back before the Civil War.

That’s a lot of lethal mayhem for a guy who’s been dead since 1842.

“Pleased to meet you! (who? who?) Hope you guess my name! (who? who?) What’s puzzlin’ you (who? who?) is the nature of my game!”

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce Henry Shrapnel.

The nature of his game is death.

I learned last November during a tour of the Gettysburg battlefield that shrapnel was a dude.

The information struck me as so odd, which is better than having it strike me as nails, ball bearings and shell fragments.

I’ve been hearing war news since I was old enough to hear. So shrapnel’s been with me my hole life. It’s one of those words that seems to instantly convey exactly what it is even as the word itself offers no clue.

I have trouble wrapping my still-intact brain around the fact that shrapnel is nimble. It is both explosively propelled fragments of death and a white-haired old grandfather.

It is a thousand pitiless metal shards capable of tearing off your leg and a country gentleman who probably enjoyed gardening in his fine English estate.

Henry Shrapnel was born in 1761 in quaint Bradford on Avon in Wiltshire, England. His portrait shows a handsome gent whose mirthful eyes twinkle like he’s about to ask a small child to pull his finger.

He spent many mornings waking up figuring out ways to kill people with whom he disagreed.

In 1874 he was a lieutenant in the Royal Artillery. Back then he could fire a cannon ball at any sharp-eyed infantry and they’d see it coming and take a quick self-preservational step to the left or right, maybe with their tongues sticking out. It frustrated him when the shot would punch a hole in maybe a barn and not one in some angry Spaniard.

So he invented a hollow projectile that discharged via a timed fuse. He loaded the casing with shot that would rain down and through enemy personnel.

That was in 1803 and 210 years later the very same principle is still widely used, as  was evidenced in the Boston Marathon bombing.

It was a game changer weapon and in 1814, the British government recognized his achievement and awarded him 1,200 British pounds per year -- about $90,000 -- for life.

He lived to the ripe old age of 80 and died in 1842 at his grand estate in Southampton.

I guess one of the reasons I’m surprised shrapnel is Shrapnel is because I’ve never met nor heard of another Shrapnel, while I have heard of billions of shrapnels. 

It would be different if I’d have ever met a Burt Shrapnel, a Frank Shrapnel or maybe a Mick Shrapnel. I guess the closest would be a Mick Jagger, which is sort of ballpark.

I found an interesting website called www.HowManyOfMe.com that claims to know the exact ranking of every single proper and surname in America.

It says there are fewer than 117 people in the U.S. with the last name Shrapnel.

By contrast, it says there are 519 American Rodells. I know exactly nine of them, including one Chris Rodell who Facebook friended me when he saw we have the same name.

He lives in Montana, seems friendly, and as far as I can tell the only things we have  in common are we’re both on Facebook and we’re both named Chris Rodell.

I’m glad none of the other 510 Rodells have so far done anything notorious. I vaguely recall my father telling me he’d once read Rodell is Hebrew word that means “Little Wheel.”

One of these days I promise to look into it.

For now, I’m just glad I’m not Chris Shrapnel, although that might become my stage name if I ever decide to engage in professional mixed marital arts.

I think it would be tough going through life with a name that connotes so much bloody death.

I’m right now happy being who I am, a little wheel forever eager to get on a real roll.

Related . . .

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'Use All The Crayons!" now a modeled book

(607 words)

There’s a fine line between earnest self-promotion and obnoxious hucksterism. I figure I cross it about once a week now.

I think people understand.

I’ve never had a more vested interest in anything succeeding like I do with “Use All The Crayons!” and won’t again until my kids are old enough for me to bum money off them.

So there’s an inherent tension anytime I sit down to write about anything involving the book. 

I guess I’m waiting for a catalyst, a moment when I cross some intangible finish line where the book does the work of selling itself -- and I don’t feel the pressure to so aggressively hype it here on the blog.

I’m waiting for what happened Friday at the Greensburg Barnes & Noble to happen all over the country.

What happened?

My book became modeled.

That’s what happens to a book that sells well enough over a long enough period to warrant automatic restocking. Once a book gets modeled, it will always be in the store because the hard-earned designation rarely gets altered.

That to me is a finish line. Thanks to my many friends and their tremendous word of mouth support the book will always be on the shelf in the self-help section. I promise to be sure to sign each one of them and will once in a while sneak crisp $5 bills between pages 12 and 13, my way of putting my money where my mouth is on item No. 33.

I’ve read the average self-published book sells fewer than 100 copies.

I sold that many in December.

And it’s still selling two or three a week during the worst book selling season of the year.

Perspective?

My book is modeled and James Patterson’s isn’t. According to the formula, Patterson and many other best-sellers do well right out of the gate and then disappear.

That same formula projects, based on about six-months of sales, my book will continue to thrive.

There’s no reason to believe that can’t happen in every book store across the country. My book isn’t about a region. It’s about a state of mind.

It’s about happiness.

And people in places like Albuquerque and Des Moines are just as eager to be happy as they are in Greensburg.

More perspective.

My book’s current amazon.com ranking is 1,294,180.

James Patterson’s new book, “11th Hour (Women’s Murder Club) is No. 803.

He’s being chauffeured around Palm Beach in a stretch limo.

I’m driving my 2007 Saturn Vue to the Latrobe laundromat because my wife says our well water turns all our whites the color of a bottle of Coppertone SPF 50.

I don’t think Patterson’s losing any sleep that I’m modeled in Greensburg and he’s not.

Doesn’t phase me a bit.

I believe very soon Barnes & Noble evaluators will see how well my book’s doing in western Pennsylvania and will use their precise formulas and handy intuition to conclude the little-book-that-could ought to be in every store.

It’s bound to soon, I believe, attract the attention of one of the prestigious publishers that summarily rejected it because it looked like it was authored by a loser. 

They will want to give it the kind of attention, polish and marketing they bestow on Patterson’s books.

And then watch it take off.

But it’ll be a while, I think, before I can take my foot off the promotional gas

So I apologize to those of you might get topical fatigue from reading about the book.

See, for me being modeled just isn’t good enough.

I won’t be satisfied until I’m supermodeled.

Related . . .

“Use All The Crayons!” unconventional marketing

“Use All The Crayons! a 10-star review

My business plan: Keep feeding the unicorn

Boston: I read the news today, oh, boy . . .

(652 words)

Any time you hear of anyone dying suddenly, it should reinforce the need to always live suddenly.

I’m not sure what tragedy inspired that line. I wrote it a few years ago after, I think, reading the singular obit of someone who died too young.

I think it’s a profound line, for me anyway, because every reader can instantly grasp the sense in it: Random death can strike anyone at any minute so it’s incumbent upon us to vigorously enjoy life while we still can. 

I wondered if it was wise to include that philosophical nugget as part of my talk with our 12 year old yesterday about the news from Boston. I know if someone I turned to for guidance told me that when I was 12 I would’ve begun more vigorously skipping school.

I wasn’t even sure I should tell her about the bombing. I know they talked about Sandy Hook in her sixth grade class and I like the idea of her being prepared for any current events discussion. And these days sudden, violent and inexplicable death is such an intrusive part of our lives the idea of sheltering even a 12 year old seems quaint.

She heard something probably in Sunday school that has given her a very fatalistic point of view for a darling girl who still enjoys “My Little Pony” cartoons.

She thinks every single thing that happens happens because it is God’s divine will. Lots of people share that simplistic view.

“See, everything happens because God wants it to. We can’t do anything about it. Like in 10 seconds, if my nose itches and I reach up to scratch it, it’ll be because God wants it to happen.”

To prove her point, exactly 10 seconds later she reached up and scratched her itchy nose.

“See!”

I have to remember to call her as an exculpatory witness if Val ever busts me getting cuddly with some cute waitress.

I have trouble believing the Patriot’s Day obliteration of three innocents was all part of God’s plan.

If so the first thing I do when I get to heaven will be to start looking around for a suggestion box.

We’re conditioned from birth to dread death, to fight and fear it. 

We believe this even as we’re taught from Sunday school on up that heaven really rocks.

It’s pearly gates, the land of milk and honey. A really great piece of chocolate cake is described as heavenly. Could there be a more compelling endorsement?

If heaven’s so great how come we spend so much time taking so many steps to ensure it’ll be years before we ever get there? True believers would, you’d think, be doing everything short of suicide to hasten their mortal demise.

I think I wonder about heaven so much because for so many this world is really hell. I know it must feel like that for people in places like Boston, Syria, Haiti and other places where all hell’s broken loose.

It’s odd, too, that no one’s ever heard of all heaven breaking loose anywhere.

Some people might use that scenario as proof to support their belief that this life is the actual hell described in the Bible.

They think when we die we either go straight to heaven or else get sent back here to endure another life of pain and frustration until we finally get it right. I don’t know whether this is true or not, but it would help explain things like Cubs fans.

Me, the longer I live the more convinced I become that our entire lives are just a really compelling reality show people in heaven watch when they’re not out playing golf.

They can root for us, cheer our successes and bemoan our miseries, but there’s nothing that bunch of heavenly bystanders can ever do to alter the outcome of the game.

Be sure to live suddenly, my friends.

Related . . .

• How old will you be in heaven?

• I cry, I fart: more thoughts on Newtown

• Heaven for Haitians

Tiger's drop & Jack's record

(764 words)

This is the time of year when golf fans ask me if I want Tiger Woods to win five more majors to beat Jack Nicklaus’s record of 18.

I do not.

So do I want Nicklaus to remain golf’s all-time champion?

Nope.

What do I want?

I want Arnold Palmer to win the next 12 majors to beat Nicklaus and become the consensus greatest golfer ever. If this happens, Palmer will win his 19th major about three years from today at the 2016 Masters. He will be 86.

This would be cool because it would mean next year he’d be the first golfer to go from being the ceremonial starter, an honor he enjoys with Nicklaus and Gary Player, and just keep going down the first fairway to win golf’s most prestigious major.

Palmer, one of the world’s greatest pitchmen -- and greatest guys -- is on the cover of my book advising readers to buy it, but that’s not why I’m rooting for Palmer to go on a senior tear.

I’m rooting for him because I no longer root for sports people. I root for interesting sports situations.

Up until about three years ago, Tiger winning was very interesting. He was very compelling and everybody loved him.

Then we learned about two dozen women loved him more than the mother of his children and that one of them schlepped pancakes down at a Perkins Restaurant in Orlando.

That was all very interesting, indeed, especially for those of us who are casual about adhering to Biblical admonishments about leaving all the moral judgements up to God.

I don’t think I’ve ever really rooted for Tiger since. He inhabits some odd middle ground where I enjoy seeing him do well enough to practically taste victory and then watch it all slip away for reasons usually beyond his control.

That’s why this Masters was so fascinating.

On Thursday at the par 5 15th hole, Woods hit his best shot of the tournament. The ball hit the stick -- the bullseye -- but cruelly bounced back into the water.

It was an incredibly bad break.

Then things got really interesting. Tiger took a deliberately illegal drop -- and if you’re unfamiliar with golf  “illegal drop” has nothing to do with the removal of his pants.

He broke the rules. Tardy Augusta rules officials assessed him a two-stroke penalty  about four hours after he’d left the grounds.

That means his signed scorecard was in error and precedent meant he should have been disqualified. Argentinian Roberto De Vicenzo at the 1968 Masters signed an incorrect scorecard -- one that included a number higher than his actual score and was written by an opponent -- and had to forfeit the championship.

If you’re a person bestowed with even a grain of common sense you’re right now probably thinking that’s the most stupid thing you’ve ever heard. And you’d be correct.

It’s ridiculous.

But Masters officials found an obscure rule no golf fan had ever heard of and said Tiger was not disqualified, preserving his presence and guaranteeing a TV ratings bonanza.

In maybe that one slim regard I’m on common ground with the poobahs who run the Masters. We’re happy to ditch our principles if it keeps things interesting.

But the golf world went into an uproar. Men who normally yell, “Get in the hole!” found themselves yelling “WTF!”

They say if it was any golfer other than Tiger Woods, then that golfer would have been bounced.

I agree.

Many were saying Tiger should have disqualified himself, and that would have been a very noble gesture. So noble I would have urged Masters officials check to make sure the real Tiger hadn’t been abducted and replaced with some do-gooder shape-shifter Tiger.

It would have been very uncharacteristic of a man who more and more appears craven in a maniacal quest, like he’s chasing some great white whale -- and please don’t mistake that as a shot at Nicklaus’s growing girth.

Know what I was hoping would happen?

I was hoping Tiger would beat the field by four-strokes -- the number that one unlucky hole cost him -- and then on the 18th green put his ball in his pocket, automatically giving the victory to the runner-up.

It would have given him a de facto win sports fans could forever argue over and it would have been the classiest gesture in sports history. It would have completely changed our perceptions of Tiger.

It would have made for a very interesting weekend.

Especially if the runner-up to whom he’d forfeited the victory was Arnold Palmer.

Related . . .

Yesterday, Arnold Palmer watched me golf

Tiger fires his Tonto

Tiger, tips & teeth

Flush-free toilets in golden age

(618 words)

I usually tingle anytime I read The Gettysburg Address, to me, the most stirring words ever written.

It’s different when I read what I think are the second most stirring words ever written.

When I read them, I usually tinkle.

“By using this touch-free completely hygienic waterfree system, you are helping the environment to conserve an average of 40,000 gallons of fresh water per urinal, per year.”

Yes, mine eyes have seen the glory of the future urinal!

That’s the little sign above the urinals in the Men’s Room at the SpringHill Suites by Marriott here in Latrobe. It’s the new Arnold Palmer hotel. I was there for drinks with friends Wednesday and, as I always do when I’m there, went to pee after every single sip just so I could bask in the porcelain innovation.

That I’m usually so overcome with emotion about the global implications I miss the target and wind up peeing all over the wall is beside the point.

Only the archaic 18th century internal combustion engine is more disappointing than the common commode, which commonly wastes 1.6 gallons of drinkable water -- the world’s most precious resource -- with every flush.

It infuriates me that many of our brightest minds today devote more brain power to divining ways to deliver better Angry Bird graphics than addressing some of the problems that can doom the planet.

And devastating water shortages are a big part of that.

I worry that one day we’ll run out of water.

What’s funny is I never worry we’ll run out of beer. This is absurd, I know, because most 12-ounce beers have enough water to support guppies -- very giddy guppies, certainly -- but that’s just the way I think.

Believing we’ll never run out of beer is a thought that always sustains me after a long day of cataloguing catastrophes out here on the perilous Blog Land front lines.

That’s why the number 40,000 gallons is to me such a big deal. 

That’s potentially a lot of beer and a preposterous savings for one year from just one little urinal in the lobby of a moderately traveled hotel in a tiny southwestern Pennsylvania town. And there are two of these marvels in the lavatory.

Just think how much savings there would be if they could convert the pissers at places like Heinz Field and PNC (pronounced Pee ‘n’ See) Park in Pittsburgh.

The mind boggles.

I wonder if the reason there’s been so little innovation in the common toilet is because people are uncomfortable talking about the indelicacies involved in this bodily function.

That’s just silly and a mindset that’s hindering any breakthroughs in this vital realm.

I’d think by now we’d be able to use toilets to digest of all our household wastes, not just the human unpleasantries.

Really, the modern toilet should be combination potty, recycling center, industrial shredder, and incinerator all in one. Whenever any object breeches a certain line, sensors automatically determine if it’s organic, plastic, metal or other before instantly dispatching the object to eco-oblivion.

This kind of efficiency will increase the importance of remembering to always keep the lid down if your dog likes to drink from the bowl.

Either way, I now have a more compelling answer next time some guy asks me in a a tavern or restaurant if I know where the rest room is.

I’ll tell him, indeed, I do. It’s in Latrobe at the Marriott across the street from the Arnold Palmer Regional Airport.

That’s where THE restroom is.

And there you have it, a splash of toilet expertise from the most unlikely of sources.

A guy who’s famous for rarely having a pot in which to piss.

Related . . .

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