Joan of Arc homeland brings America's decline into focus

Hating the French.

 

It used to be easy.

 

Take the World War Two debt.

 

America saves their ungrateful keisters from Hitler and they never paid back the fortune we poured into the effort.

 

Andy Rooney once wrote about his eyewitness to chutzpah.

 

De Gaulle marching triumphantly into Paris like a liberator.

 

He led from the rear, while American blood paved the way for his cheesy return, riding a Sherman tank manufactured in Detroit.

 

And the snobbery.

 

It seems like the French national pastime is turning one's nose up at an American tourist who can't tell the difference between a baguette and a biscuit.

 

Anti-French sentiment reached a fever pitch in 2003,  when American troops entered Baghdad to overthrow Saddam Hussein.

 

On the floor of the United Nations, the French ambassador attacked American policy.

 

Outraged, an American congressman from Ohio  ordered the Capitol cafeteria chef to take french fries off the menu.

 

Last week  it all changed.

 

A French Phoenix has risen from the ashes of its condescending and ungrateful reputation.

 

Let's take Mali.

 

The French sent troops to assist the legally constituted Mali government under attack from Al Qaeda terrorists.

 

Who knew that the French would  lead the world in a noble crusade against jihadist bullies?

 

Raising cheers from Americans.

 

Another incident restored my faith in the land of Victor Hugo.

 

The streets of Paris were filled with an anti-gay marriage demonstration.

 

With a crowd  estimated as high as one million, it was acknowledged by French officials as the largest gathering  in decades.

 

Protesting the legalization of gay marriage.

 

In France!

 

And it wasn't just a bunch of those nasty Christians.

 

Jews, Muslims, and atheists joined the effort in large numbers.

 

Their message?

 

Simple.

 

Government sanctioned same sex marriage puts the desires of adults over the needs of children.

 

Children who deserve the benefit of being raised in the wholesome environment of a one-man one-woman relationship.

 

These are the French!

 

I love blunt talk from a sophisticated culture.

 

I should've guessed the French would embrace the idea of heterosexual unions over the homosexual variety.

 

After all, who can forget Maurice Chevalier in "Gigi" singing,  "Thank heaven for little girls, without them what would little boys do?"

 

Here's the point.

 

The French are back in my good graces.

 

A long time ago, a French general named Lafayette came to the aid of George Washington to help defeat King George's redcoats.

 

Freedom took root and the American experiment carries on today.

 

 I hope our international rockstar president is paying attention.

 

Obama's timid stance in facing international challenges has projected a picture of a neutered America.

 

Emasculated.

 

His recent press conference surrounded by children as he presented anti-gun initiatives belies his  hypocrisy.

 

He publicly embraces same-sex marriage despite its threat to the well-being of children.

 

In my book, the French are standing proud.

 

How about America, Mr. President?

 

Do we stand for anything anymore?

 

A message for you, Monsieur Baraque.

 

Vive la France!

Modern device terrorizes slightly neurotic citizen

I have an all-powerful and all-knowing enemy.

 

It is cold, uncaring.

 

Ruthless.

 

And it is cunning.

 

Thwarting me at every turn.

 

The Techno-Toilet.

 

You've seen them.

 

They're becoming more  common in places like airports and libraries.

 

The flushing occurs not with your hand on  stainless steel.

 

The eye ball detects your departure from the plastic seat.

 

Signaling the auto flush.

 

That's how it's supposed to work.

 

But my cyborg nemesis seeks to humiliate me.

 

Here's the frightening story.

 

A beautiful shrine in downtown Cleveland has become a peaceful retreat for me three or four times each month.

 

About a year ago, these modern toilets were installed.

 

I guess the theory behind them goes something like this.

 

The 'lectro flush takes the Shakespearean question  "to flush or not to flush" out of your hands, so to speak.

 

This device will flush one time when it decides you have finished doing your duty.

 

No more wasting water by holding a flush-a-thon in the john.

 

And for the forgetful?

 

Don't worry.

 

The eye sees all and will take care of that last task that usually punctuates your encounter with American Standard.

 

I sort of miss that final handshake.

 

No time to say "au revoir".

 

I remember how mom and dad used to stand next to the training potty, allowing me to beam with pride, basking in the glory of my creation.

 

Anyway, getting back to my story, the problem is that this potty from outer space won't flush.

 

I mean it won't flush for me.

 

I waive my hands in front of the all-knowing eye.

 

Nothing.

 

Then I put my foot up there: maybe it detects dense body parts only.

 

No reaction.

 

 

I try blocking what I presume is the infrared beam at various distances.

 

Still nothing.

 

Now what do I do?

 

I don't want someone to come in after me and wonder what jerk left this distasteful surprise.

 

Leave?

 

Stay?

 

Maybe I should try to reason with it.

 

But I know better.

 

It enjoys torturing me like this.

 

I finally leave, checking to see who might be waiting outside to use the facility.

 

I am defeated.

 

Members of the public, hear me.

 

I am a caring person.

 

Curse me not.

 

I am no inconsiderate slob.

 

I am a victim of this cold beast who will not do me the courtesy of blinking away the fruit of my bowels.

 

Pity me.

 

I will prevail in the end.

 

I have ordered a universal remote control device that will restore my power over plumbing.

 

And when that day comes, I shall leave the door open for my successors to the throne.

 

Never to be accused again of the most vile act of thoughtlessness.

 

And until that day comes, my friends, I bid you adieu.

 

Or do I mean doo-doo?

 

 

Open or Closed? Here's a vote for memories over molecules

Years ago, my Gran passed away.

 

Gran was the name we called my mother's father.

 

He was full of personality.

 

Blind in his later years, he continued playing piano using unique chords reminiscent of George Shearing.

 

An elegant beauty to his music.

 

He established our family's Society of Chocolate Lovers, making a fudge with his secret formula  passed down the ages and carefully guarded by his grandchildren.

 

Visiting Cleveland, he made a beeline for Mitchell's.

 

Mitchell's is a tiny shop in Cleveland Heights where Mr. Mitchell makes  concoctions that put this legendary candy emporium on the map when his mom and dad established it in 1939.

 

A fluffy whipped mint  marshmallow filling encased in a thick dark chocolate shell.

 

I've never tasted anything as unique and delicious anywhere on earth.

 

Gran was a West Point graduate  who charged up San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt.

 

He was filled with what the French call "Joie de Vivre".

 

The joy of life.

 

A friend of Gran's came to the wake,  explaining that he wouldn't glance at the body  in the open casket.

 

"I want to remember him the way he was: so alive!"

 

I agree.

 

My friends, this column is not about a great man's death.

 

It's about the good sense in keeping caskets closed.

 

Research tells us  viewing the body has psychological value.

 

Looking at the remains helps communicate the reality that the loved one is gone.

 

Baloney.

 

We are  logical and sophisticated.

 

We know what death is.

 

Our bodies are merely the box our souls are packaged in.

 

We don't need to remember someone by standing around and staring at that empty box.

 

I am not this frail shell.

 

I am the time I made myself late by stopping to get the newspaper for my mother-in-law.

 

I'm the jerk who opens a  new carton of milk even though there's still a little bit left in the previously opened carton.

 

I am all the acts of love or selfishness or shame or courage that paint the picture of my life.

 

We  paint this canvas throughout our lives from  pallets of varied behavior and experience.

 

Think about the life of the one we've lost and treasure the great memories.

 

Recall the example set by that life.

 

Examine that self-portrait.

 

Take care of that box while you're stuck with it.

 

But after you're gone, we should remember the contents, not the box.

 

Funeral directors may disagree but I'm convinced.

 

Take the position of prayer on that kneeler in front of the coffin and offer a petition for God to embrace the  eternal soul.

 

Why would you take a long wooden box and open it up to display another box inside?

 

Please don't distract me with the packaging.

 

Celebrate the life.

 

Not the wrapper it came in.

 

It wasn't that complex configuration of carbon molecules that fought with Teddy's Rough Riders.

 

It was the man inside.

 

Let me see that man.

 

Close the  casket.

Feud brewed confronting the rude and crude in the nude

The story you are about to read is true.

 

The underwear has been changed to protect the innocent.

 

I almost provoked a brawl at the YMCA.

 

In the steam room.

 

A room full of naked men.

 

Here's what happened.

 

The West End Y in Willoughby is an outstanding facility.

 

Great staff, great equipment, convenient hours.

 

After a workout, I hit the steam room.

 

Just like in the movies, a bunch of guys sitting around in a cloud of hot steam.

 

Relaxing.

 

Invigorating.

 

And as you'd expect, the required uniform is your birthday suit adorned by a white towel.

 

That's when my mouth got me into trouble.

 

You see, the YMCA has a rule: no shaving in the steam room.

 

It's based on fear of blood-borne disease.

 

One nick of your chin from your Gillette razor means blood could infect the whole room.

 

Who wants to sit on a bench splattered with your AB negative?

 

The Lake County Health Department has even issued warnings against such dangerous behavior.

 

One Saturday afternoon a few weeks ago, a couple of us were soaking up the hot steam.

In walks a fellow with an apple in his left hand and something else in his right.

 

A razor.

 

The steam pumps into the room at an intense rate.

 

The newcomer begins to stroke the blade across his cheek.

 

He shakes the razor clean after each stroke, depositing scraped whiskers on the floor next to him.

 

A little gross.

 

I summoned my most non-confrontational tone.

 

I smile and speak.

 

"Excuse me, would you mind not shaving?"

 

He glares, "It's people like you who ruin this place for the rest of us!"

 

He begins to rise, menacingly.

 

He shouts, "Are you some kind of germophobe?"

 

He seems poised to throw a punch.

 

At this point, I'm somewhat alarmed.

 

Armed only with a towel that currently barely functions as a loincloth, I'm at a disadvantage.

 

I try to come up with a brilliant retort to defuse the tension.

 

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I'm terrified of germs. You'll see my picture in the dictionary next to the word 'Germophobe'."

 

The aggressor backs down.

 

Apparently, in the neanderthal mind, it's not worth taking a poke at those who suffer from obsessive phobias.

 

Psychology saves the day.

 

The Titan of the steam room has retreated.

 

However, he attempts one more dimwitted sarcastic thrust.

 

"Is it okay if I eat my apple, or does that bother you too?"

 

Interesting question.

 

You see, it is far from sanitary to munch a Macintosh in the land of sweaty buttcracks.

 

But the only danger is to the fool choosing to dine at Le Room de Steame.

 

 

 

"Go ahead, be my guest."

 

I showered and went home.

 

I'm happy I avoided fisticuffs that day.

 

I haven't seen my nemesis since then.

 

I hope he's okay.

 

But  then again, I haven't checked the obituaries.

 

I've heard that ingesting the staphylococcus virus can be fatal.

 

Bon apetit.

 

Man's humanity to man: a tribute to tender kindness at Christmas

 

Here's to a soup kitchen Christmas,

in a warehouse filled with good cheer.

Here's to a little old lady,

as she smiles at a kind  volunteer.

 

It's served on a plate made of paper.

It's not what you give the elite.

It's made with a love and compassion

no gourmet from Paris could beat.

 

There's a man playing Santa,

he's there every year,

even though he has family of his own.

He distributes the gifts with a laugh and a hug,

and reminds them that they are not alone.

 

So here's to a soup kitchen Christmas.

No sadness or loneliness there.

Here's to the warmth and the safety,

A peaceful and joyous affair.

 

Look in your heart when its Christmas.

Are there debts that you never repaid?

People you never forgiven?

Apologies you've never made?

 

There's misfortune around

that you seem not to see,

even though it's in front of your nose.

But for God's grace,

you're the one all alone,

disheveled in raggedy clothes.

 

So here's to a soup kitchen Christmas.

Above hangs the Bethlehem star.

Like it did o'er a child in a manger,

in a time and a place very far.

 

He said,   "Give to the hungry and homeless,

give hope to a desperate plight."

Come find the meaning of Christmas

in a soup kitchen on a cold Christmas night.

Paul Simon sang of "Slip Slidin' Away" but without a push

In 1967, Spencer Tracy delivered one of the most spellbinding performances in the history of film.

 

The movie was called “Guess Who's Coming To Dinner.”

 

It culminates with Tracy’s moving soliloquy about truth, justice, racism, and love.

 

Fourteen days after filming was completed, Spencer Tracy died of a heart attack.

 

He had been battling lung disease, diabetes, and liver failure.

 

But he was determined to make that movie because he believed in its message.

 

No doctor was going to expedite Tracy's  arrival at Forest Lawn.

 

Which brings me to a recent story published in the Daily Mail in London.

 

The National Health Service, England's government run health care system, has established something called the Liverpool Care Pathway.

 

This is a program in which the doctor decides that because you don't have much longer to live, action may be taken to expedite the process.

 

The medical professional subjectively decides that you belong in the express lane of the checkout counter even if you may have many days of life ahead of you.

 

Professor  Patrick Pullicino recently addressed the Royal Society of Medicine in London.

 

He is a board certified neurologist for East Kent Hospital and teaches clinical neuroscience at the University of Kent.

 

The good doctor cited a specific case where his patient was placed on the Liverpool Care Pathway by a visiting weekend physician.

 

The Pathway protocol calls for denial of food, water, and all medicines other than pain relievers.

 

When Dr. Pullicino came in to see his patient  Monday morning, he was shocked.

 

He removed the seventy-one year old gentleman from the Pathway protocol and resumed appropriate medical treatment despite opposition from the hospital administration.

 

After four weeks, the patient was discharged home to his family where he lived another fourteen months of productive life surrounded by the loving care of his children.

 

Fourteen months!

 

Dr. Peter Millard from the University of London and Dr. Peter Hargreaves at the St. Luke's Cancer Center refer to the Pathway protocol as a form of “backdoor euthanasia”.

 

I agree.

 

No one should be permitted to  discount the value of your last days.

 

Pathway grants authority to give you a little push while you are standing on the edge of the cliff looking out into eternity.

 

I will stand on the edge of that cliff as long as I damn well please.

 

It may be very costly and may tie up a hospital bed.

 

But it is insane for  government to create incentives for medical professionals to “hurry things along”.

 

I plan to use my last days to do my very best work.

 

I'm going to  communicate to my family how much I've loved and appreciated them.

 

The Pathway protocol applied to Spencer Tracy  would've snuffed out his tour de force  cinematic moment before it ever happened.

 

I'm going to be like the tough old coot that Spencer Tracy portrayed in “Guess Who's Coming To Dinner.”

 

I'm going to fight all the way through to the end as a matter of principle.

 

You don’t have to if you don’t want to.

 

But I don't want some doctor to have access to a button that  opens a trapdoor right below where I'm standing.

 

It's not right.

 

That’s why government shouldn’t be running our medical system.

 

Stop Obamacare.

 

There's someone you see often but do you recognize him?

Planned giving.

 

It's an elegant term meaning donation upon death.

 

You leave money to the charity in your will.

 

The tax-exempt organization waits for you to die.

 

I have a better idea.

 

Not planned giving.

 

Spontaneous giving.

 

More exciting.

 

Less morbid.

 

Here's the way it works.

 

If you come across someone in need, you give them money.

 

Now I warn you that most police departments say I'm nuts.

 

Giving to the homeless can be dangerous.

 

I hear that.

 

But I'm haunted by the beautiful story of the final judgment told by Jesus in the Gospel of Matthew.

 

When, Master, did we see you hungry and not feed you, naked and not clothe you,  homeless and deny you shelter?

 

Jesus tells the condemned  they missed him.

 

Disguised as those in need.

 

That's why I concluded spontaneous giving is perfectly acceptable.

 

The beggar downtown is Jesus, isn't he?

 

Not sure, are you?

 

For me, it started about five years ago.

 

I attended  noon church service on a Friday in Advent.

 

In the vestibule, just before mass, a young woman appeared out of nowhere.

 

Crying.

 

Told me a tough story about a lost check and hungry children.

 

And her hope in me.

 

That's when crazy really kicked in.

 

I  let go of rational thought and let compassion rule.

 

I told myself that whatever denomination of currency I pulled from my pocket, I'd hand it to that lady.

 

Momentarily, I forgot my plans to Christmas shop that afternoon.

 

It was an act of blind faith.

 

You take over now, Jesus.

 

Whatever I pull out goes to the needy mom.

 

A $100 bill!

 

I gave it to her.

 

She hugged me.

 

I attended the service, my pocket lighter by one Ben Franklin.

 

But my spirits were lifted by the exhilaration of surrender to love.

 

You don't have to be that insane.

 

But you can spontaneously give something, even to a panhandler that just might use it for booze or drugs.

 

You don't know.

 

So don't judge.

 

My Dad  once invited a homeless man to a downtown restaurant for lunch.

 

Both men were thrilled by that meal.

 

Dad was like Will Rogers: never met a man he didn't like.

 

I once had a priest give the following penance in the confessional: say yes to the first person who asks for help.

 

On the sidewalk, a stranger down on his luck came right up to me and asked for money.

 

Weird, right?

 

I gave him some cash.

 

And I was more than okay with that.

 

I know they'll be criticism of this column.

 

Don't abandon all common sense in favor of reckless and dangerous behavior.

 

But I know you.

 

You have that impulse that occasionally moves you.

 

Be careful, but it's alright to act on that impulse every now and then.

 

Maybe the Son of Man is that putrid smelling hobo holding a sign on the shoulder of the road.

 

You might see him again sometime on judgment day.

 

Why take the chance?

 

Merry  Christmas.