Our Sunday Best

Years ago, that ubiquitous phrase meant that you were going to the house of the Lord, and as such, dressed as respectfully as if you were to be in the company of a king.

In some places, that still holds true.  At nearly every predominantly African-American church I’ve passed on myriad Sundays, dapper men wear suits and hats and the ladies wear bright, faultless dresses. There’s something at once charming and impressive about that.

On the other hand, about the only time you’ll see white people dressed that well in a Catholic church is when they’re lying in a casket.

For the most part, there’s nothing wrong with dressing a bit casually for church. Personally, I’m about as comfortable in a suit as a cat in a bathtub. But at some point, dressing down crosses the line from “casual” to “what the hell is wrong with you?”

Take Pittsburgh, for example. On any given Sunday, you can look around the church and see grown men and women smartly decked out in their finest Steelers jerseys. Now, that’s fine if the line you’re standing in is for a couple of beers and a footlong. But in a Catholic church, it’s kinda ridiculous, given that Catholics believe they’re standing in line to receive the body, blood, soul and divinity of the Son of the Living God. Do you really think that an appropriate top to wear for this Eucharistic mystery is Ben Roethlisberger’s big ol’ number seven?

“Ah, what’s the big deal?” some ask. “It’s not like the Apostles dressed up for Jesus.” Well, yes, that’s true. But on the other hand, they weren’t wearing a licensed replica throwback Barabbas tunic either.

Seeing Steeler jerseys at Mass makes me wonder what Father Robert J. McCoy would think of today’s church fashion. Father McCoy was our parish priest growing up in the Juniata section of Altoona. He was a no-nonsense man, a veteran of World War II and no fan of the creeping informality that began infesting the church after Vatican II. I’m pretty sure that had you walked into Holy Rosary Church in the 1970s bedecked in your best Lambert jersey, Father McCoy would have put you in a half-nelson and thrown you head-first through a stained glass window. Had you’d been paralyzed in the incident, Father McCoy would have then promptly taken to the podium and made a heartfelt financial appeal to fix the window.

However, in the era of Christ-as-self-esteem coach, I’ve yet to see a priest bat an eye when a jersey-clad parishioner walks up to receive communion. They’d probably tell you they’re just glad the Steelers fan is at Mass.

So am I. They make my khakis and polo shirt look rather formal. 

Snow, Please.

Imagine a guy with a beard. A nice, bushy, white beard. He looks nice with that beard. Distinguished. Warm. Friendly. Then one day, he shaves the beard, only to reveal a face full of scars, pockmarks, lopsided moles, puncture wounds, bug bites and a birthmark shaped like a vomiting goat.

That's Pittsburgh in winter when the snow melts.

This time of year, western Pennsylvania sprouts a bumper crop of ugly. There's no sugarcoating that fact. Without snow, this place ranks right up there in dismal with post-eruption Mount Saint Helens. It's brown and gray and dead and depressing. Ever see a promotional photo of Pittsburgh in winter with no snow? No. You know why? Because it's fugly, that's why.

We had an inch and a half of rain yesterday, and all people are saying is, "Well, at least it wasn't snow." Yeah, that would be awful if this vista of mud and leafless trees and naked scrub brush and brown grass and crooked telephone poles were to be covered up by a blanket of pristine white snow. Thank God it rained and now I can see every discarded milk jug in every decomposing patch of thickets along every dilapidated guard rail.

"Well, you don't have to shovel rain."

This is the frequent refrain from folks who'd rather suffer Seasonal Affective Disorder than push fluffy white snow to the curb. I guess an increased risk of suicide is preferable to an increased risk of heart attack.

Unfortunately, these folks are getting their way right now. This gray, lifeless day could last another three months. They may be happy, but I'm praying for snow. Everything's dead out there. It might as well be buried.

Scott Brown Saves the Democratic Party

Republican Scott Brown won the election for Ted Kennedy's seat in Massachusetts tonight. It was a shocking victory in a state where Democrats outnumber Republicans roughly 3-1. But the big winner tonight is the Democratic party.

That's because Democrats in the house, senate and white house were on a suicide mission to ram through unpopular legislation: the health care takeover, union card check, unfathomable deficits and cap and trade (and tax and regulate and dictate and plunder). These pieces of legislation ran counter to the will of the people who recognize them for what they are — cash and freedom grabs that would pay off democrat special interests to the detriment of the rest of the country. Passing them meant almost certain defeat on election day.

But in winning tonight, Scott Brown has ended the filibuster-proof power of Democrats in D.C. In so doing, he has put up a roadblock to legislation that the vast majority of American voters despise. And in so doing, he has put off the November slaughter of democratic politicians who were poised to fall on the sword for government health care, insane and unnecessary green regulation and free-choice obliterating gifts to big labor. Those democrats who were ready to lose their seats to advance these nation-altering laws are now off the hook: odds are, they'll never come to a vote.

With these issues off the table, Americans' anger will abate over the next few months. They won't remember that their representatives were on the brink of pushing this country into virtually irreversible socialism, only to be rescued by Republican senate voter #41. Republicans won the battle tonight. But come November, tonight's victory will make it exponentially more difficult to win the war.

Can I Never Fly USAir Again, Please?

Standing in line at Boston Logan Airport, awaiting the privilege of being frisked in the name of national security, I was privy to the utterances of a well-dressed gent in the first class line who breezed by with the comment, "USAir is the worst airline in the world." Sitting here tonight, some 24 hours after landing and still with a kink in my right lat, I can't muster a counter-argument. USAir is gawdawful.

It boggles the mind that the same industry can produce the extremes of USAir and Southwest. Southwest flights are affordable, the planes full and comfortable, the result profitable even though bags fly free. USAir flights are expensive, the planes full and just barely beneath the Geneva Convention definition of torture, the result consistently on the brink of bankruptcy even though bags fly at $25 a pop.

There's only one possible explanation:

USAir is run by people who have no association with flight whatsoever.

To be honest, I have no idea who runs USAir. They might be nice people. But it's pretty obvious that they've never flown in their lives. Ever. They may not even know what an airplane looks like. If you showed them a picture of one of their planes and asked them what it was, they'd probably tell you it's some kind of fancy turtle.

The concept of why people fly is foreign to them. It seems ridiculous to them that their customers — people who have to travel so far that the only way to make the journey in less than a month is to do so in the sky at nearly the speed of sound — would have any need to bring stuff with them. Hence they punish their customers $25 per-bag and provide overhead storage that can hold approximately 20 carry-ons, even though the plane holds 50 people, each of whom is invited to bring on two items.

I'm also not sure who the person is in charge of configuring the interiors of USAir planes, but I'm pretty sure he came from the Campbell's Soup Company, where his job was to design boxes that reduced product loss due to shipping damage. Clearly, he believes that the key to moving people safely around the country is to pack them in so tightly together that they don't shift during transit. On yesterday's flight from Boston to Pittsburgh, fifty people were stuffed in a plane that any rational individual would estimate to comfortably hold fewer than twelve. But in fairness, none were dented on the journey.

My flying partner yesterday, Dave Popelka, (davepopelka.blogspot.com) said that the plane was, "designed around the premise that the only people who fly USAir are jockeys." I'm six-feet tall, which isn't terribly unusual for people raised on cow-based food that was laced with bovine growth hormones. I had to crouch the length of the plane to avoid shaving my head on the ceiling. This cumbersome waddle ended at America's least comfortable seat. The headrest was situated roughly one foot lower than the sitting height of the average human head. The seat cushion was as hard as marble. The flight attendant (there was only one) told us that it could be used as a flotation device, but that's only because it appeared to have been made out of titanium and shaped like a ship's hull. Around the seat, the window was perfectly positioned for optimum viewing, provided your eyes are in your elbow, and the armrests were barely wide enough to accommodate the limbs of a starving mantis.

Oh, and the cabin was roughly 116 degrees Fahrenheit. Luckily, being winter, we were all wearing heavy clothing.

The world's most accomplished sadist couldn't create a less comfortable flying experience on a dare.

Oddly enough, the flight was overbooked. I'm assuming that's only because Al Qaeda Airlines was full. As an incentive, USAir was generously offering a $200 voucher for anyone willing to give up their seat. The catch was that it was only good for a future USAir flight. For 25 cents and a seat on Southwest, I'd have volunteered in a heartbeat.

Just Say "No" to Squeeze Mayonnaise

I, like most Americans, cheered the technological breakthrough that brought us squeeze mayonnaise. Thanks to the squeeze bottle, I would never again face the horror of sticking a knife into a jar of mayo, only to discover a six-week-old fragment of chunk light tuna that used to be swimming in natural spring water.

But here's the problem: Squeeze mayonnaise is a diabolical plot, masterminded by Hellmann's (and probably Halliburton) to increase mayonnaise sales.

They make it look legitimate with words like "E-Z Squeeze" and a label that's applied so as to be upright when the bottle rests on its cap. And at first, one little squeeze delivers a perfect portion of mayo. Don't be fooled! This condimentary utopia is a swiftly fading mirage.

Even though it may be resting on its lid in the fridge for a month, the mayo inside refuses to yield to gravity after less than half the bottle has been emptied. First, you try to shake it. But that mayo has stronger adhesive properties than colon polyps. Sometimes a stray dollop shakes loose, only to be ejected from the bottle by your violent shaking. This projectile mayonnaise (or "projectaise") is inexplicably drawn to trousers and/or mail. At this point, you think there's enough near the bottle exit to squeeze on your burger. But after only a fraction of an ounce crawls out, an air bubble is released with the escape velocity of a Saturn V rocket, spraying a fine mist of mayonnaise (or "mistaise") over a six square foot area.

Angry and in need of new pants, you figure you'll just take the lid off and use a knife. HA! That lid is harder to remove than a truck bumper. It's designed with a locking latch and secured with Krazy Glue, solder and carpet tacks. It's the exact same lid mechanism they use for spent uranium rods. You're not getting inside that bottle without the jaws of life.

Eventually, you give up and throw out 40% to 60% of the mayonnaise you bought, then run out and buy more. Meanwhile, the fiends at Hellmann's (and probably Goldman Sachs) laugh all the way to the bank.

But I'm on to your sinister game, Mr. Hellmann (and probably Mr. Bin Laden). I'm going back to the jar, tuna be damned.

Note to MLB: HURRY UP!!!

If there's one thing this year's World Series is long on, it's length. Each game has been nearly three and a half hours long, regardless of the final score:

GAME 1: Phillies 6, Yankees 1
Hits: 15
Pitchers: 7
Time: 3 hours 27 minutes

GAME 2: Yankees 3, Phillies 1
Hits: 14
Pitchers: 6
Time: 3 hours 25 minutes

GAME 3: Yankees 8, Phillies 5
Hits: 14
Pitchers: 10
Time: 3 hours 25 minutes

GAME 4: Yankees 7, Phillies 4
Hits: 17
Pitchers: 8
Time: 3 hours 25 minutes

Yes, there have been a couple of high-scoring affairs there, but even game two which totaled only four runs was nearly 3.5 hours long. Compare that to this:

1960 World Series Game 7: Pirates 10, Yankees 9
Hits: 24
Pitchers 9
Time: 2 hours 36 minutes

A game that featured 19 runs, seven pitching changes, 24 hits, five walks, one error and a timeout to drag Tony Kubek off the field was 49 to 51 minutes shorter than any series game played so far this year.

There is one category, however, where this year's games all come up short: drama. On October 13, 1960, there was barely time to breathe between twists and turns. This year, there's time to visit the fridge, check email, tuck in the kids, run to the store and take part in a webinar. No wonder America is tuning out in droves.

A bigger problem that MLB seems unable to comprehend much less address is that the next generation of fans can't watch the games because they start so late and last so painfully long. On school nights. IN THE SECOND MARKING PERIOD.

In 1960, game seven started at one o'clock in the afternoon. So loved was the game of baseball that kids skipped school to watch it or smuggled transistor radios into school to catch the action as it happened. Now, they're lucky to be awake when the second inning starts, much less for the final out.

If kids never see the final act of the baseball season, eventually (and this is already happening) they're not going to follow Major League Baseball at all during the summer. The only reason you follow a story is to see how it ends. And baseball's story ends too late in the year and too late at night for kids to get that satisfaction. Which, down the road already being traveled, might end baseball's story altogether.

The World's Funniest Nazi Dies at 96

The mystery is how Fritz Darges didn't die at 31.

Darges was the last surviving member of Hitler's inner circle. He died Saturday at the age of 96, still admiring Hitler, still longing for a Reich. "I must say, I found him a genius," he said of Hitler. (OK, that part isn't funny, but what ardent leftist doesn't think all socialist crazies are geniuses?)

Darges cut his comedic chops in the worst possible place imaginable: a conference with Adolf Hitler on July 18, 1944.

Now, by July of 1944, Hitler probably wasn't in a joking mood. The Allies had landed in France and things along the eastern front with Russia were falling apart. In this particular conference of his inner circle, Hitler was going over strategies and maps with, among others, Darges and Luftwaffe adjutant Nicolaus von Below. At one point during the meeting, a fly made it's presence known by buzzing around Hitler's head and landing on his map.

At this point, Hitler ordered Darges to dispatch the fly.

Darges, who I'm assuming was laughing inwardly as he said it, suggested that since the fly was an airborne pest, the responsibility fell to the Luftwaffe, and as such, von Below should take care of it.

History tells us not whether von Below laughed. But Hitler sure as hell didn't.

Only a Hitler could not find Darges' comment funny, and needless to say, this Hitler did not. "You're for the eastern front!" he raged, and had Darges removed from the room. True to his word, Hitler sent Darges to fight the Russians. Considering that kings normally slay jesters who fail to amuse, he got off easy.

Or at least until he got home, I'm guessing. Imagine explaining that one to the missus.

DARGES: Um, honey? I leave for the eastern front tomorrow.
MRS. D.: What?!? But you're in Hitler's inner circle!
DARGES: Yeah, not so much now.
MRS. D.: What happened?!?
DARGES: Well... it's funny, really, when you think about it. There was this fly buzzing around and Hitler told me to kill it. So I said, "That's an airborne pest so it's the Luftwaffe's job. Make von Below do it." Heh-heh.

Pause

DARGES: I guess you had to be there.

Two days later, that bit of hilarity might have saved Darges' life. On July 20, the bomb designed to kill Hitler went off at a meeting of the inner circle, killing three officers and the stenographer.

Meanwhile, Darges was alive and well and on his way to Russia. That's a shame, given how unrepentant the old Nazi was right up until the very end. That joke should have killed.