The cute young woman in the white pants suit who pitches Progressive automobile insurance 0n television has made us all aware that of the many discounts available: for good drivers, good students, non-smokers, and the like. I'd like to suggest that discounts also be provided to drivers who do not have cell phones.
I thought of that this morning on the way to campus when a fellow in one of those monstrosities that you have to buy at a lot on top of a craggy mountain came at me at an intersection and I saw my life pass before my eyes (not a pretty show, by the way). We avoided an accident, but I'm sure we would not have nearly met that way had he not had his cell phone to his ear.
God knows where his mind was. Having just left home myself, I figured that maybe his wife was giving him what-for for having forgotten all the things he should have done yesterday and telling him he'd darn well better not forget today.
I know I'd be listening to my wife give me the dickens for that sort of thing if I had a cell phone. Without one, however, I just get to listen to that before I go out the door, say my "yes, dears," and climb into the silence of my car. So I drive much more carefully than my near new acquaintance, and I think it only just that my insurance rates be lower than his
In fact, it occurs to me that it's also dangerous for me to drive with my wife alongside me and listen to her recite all my undone tasks and other faults, of which the list is just a page or two longer than the litany of the saints, and how much safer I am when I'm alone in the car and able to devote my full attention to avoiding accidents with people who are talking (or, in the case of husbands, listening) on their cell phones.
Come to think of it, maybe the insurance companies also ought to give a safe driver discount for husbands who drive alone.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Two articles published on paper
While I was putting finishing touches on the syllabus for my spring course Communications Writing, I decided to let students see (and criticize, if they wish) postings on this blog. For them, and for my other two or three readers, I’ll include two articles that I wrote for Conversations, a publication distributed to faculty and staff members of the 28 Jesuit colleges and universities.
“Katrina Strikes and Southern Jesuit Colleges Survive,” Conversations on Jesuit Higher Education, No. 29 (Spring 2006)
“Journalism and Jesuit Mission,” Conversations on Jesuit Higher Education, No. 35 (Spring 2009)
“Katrina Strikes and Southern Jesuit Colleges Survive,” Conversations on Jesuit Higher Education, No. 29 (Spring 2006)
http://www.marquette.edu/library/archives/Conversations/No29_2006/29_lorenz.pdf
“Journalism and Jesuit Mission,” Conversations on Jesuit Higher Education, No. 35 (Spring 2009)
http://www.marquette.edu/library/archives/Conversations/No35_2009/no35_lorenz.pdf
Friday, January 1, 2010
Plumbing the Unfathomable
There’s something about the holidays that brings out the best in people.
And, in my experience, the worst in the plumbing.
I remember one New Year’s Eve when my mother was visiting and was doing the dishes. Somehow, she dropped a shot glass into the disposal and ground it up. The water rose in the sink.
My mother cried.
I crawled under the sink with my wrench and swore. Everyone else went outside to watch fireworks.
The next day, the plumbers came. The problem was not in the disposal, they found, but in the drain pipe out to the main waste drain. They came back, dug up the yard, replaced the pipe—a root had grown into it—and all was well again.
I thought of that in the week between Christmas and New Year’s.
The Delta faucet on our kitchen sink had been dripping, so the day after Christmas I went to the neighborhood hardware store to get the washers I’d need to stop the drip. The store was closed. It would not reopen until Monday, I read on the sign taped to the door. I went to Lowe’s, found the washers, went through the automatic checkout, picked up my change, and went out to the car. I took out the key and realized I had left the washers in the sack at the checkout point.
Back to the store. Two men were at the same checkout point.
Did you find…?
These yores? one asked. Here y’are podner. He handed me the little packet, which he had taken out of the sack I had put in.
Back home, I replaced the springs and washers, and that took care of the drip. But when I turned the water back on, the hot water was a mere trickle. I must have put in a couple of hours opening the patient up again, closing, opening, closing, until I figured that rusted filings in the pipes might have clogged it. I needed a specialist. I called my regular plumber.
Sorry, he told me. I’m retiring on January first. Too many forms to fill out, too much red tape. After the first, I’m going to work for the parish government as an inspector. To be part of the problem, I thought to myself.
I called a plumber in the neighborhood. He confirmed my diagnosis and showed me a T that looked like a cross section of one of those arteries in the commercials that have me talking to my doctor. It’s a wonder any water got through at all. (Reminder: Be sure to have cholesterol checked at next physical.)
He replaced some pipes and got the water flowing well again.
Not what it should be, he said. This ‘uns pretty old, so you might replace it. When you get a new one, call us and we’ll install it fer ya.
We spent another hour together, the plumber and I, in the bathroom of the upstairs rental unit. The tenants had complained of the failure of the bathtub to drain properly, largely because, as I determined, they had no screen over the drain. They could have solved the problem with a trip to the hardware store, but it’s easier to call the landlord.
The toilet isn’t flushing right, either, the tenant had told me. It hasn’t worked well for a couple of months.
He or his roommate had taken the lid off so they could manipulate the innards to flush.
I had the plumber replace the Fluidmaster. I’ve done my share of installing Fluidmasters, and I figured I’d have the him do it, and I would take his fee off the income tax. I can’t do that with my own work.
Oh, yeah, the tenant said, all the electricity has been off in one room for awhile.
That I fixed with a click of the circuit breaker. Then I picked up all the fuses that someone had scattered around the room that holds the electrical boxes (one box with breakers, one with fuses).
On the way home I stopped at the hardware store in my neighborhood to pick up a strainer for the tub. I had measured the diameter of the opening with a folded dollar bill. 1 ½ inches in diameter looked perfect. But when I went back the next day, I found that the strainer was just a bit larger than the hole. I went around the corner to the hardware store near the rental and got one that fit. Then I took the larger one back to my neighborhood store.
My father always told me, things will be better after the first of the year. He just didn’t tell me which year.
And, in my experience, the worst in the plumbing.
I remember one New Year’s Eve when my mother was visiting and was doing the dishes. Somehow, she dropped a shot glass into the disposal and ground it up. The water rose in the sink.
My mother cried.
I crawled under the sink with my wrench and swore. Everyone else went outside to watch fireworks.
The next day, the plumbers came. The problem was not in the disposal, they found, but in the drain pipe out to the main waste drain. They came back, dug up the yard, replaced the pipe—a root had grown into it—and all was well again.
I thought of that in the week between Christmas and New Year’s.
The Delta faucet on our kitchen sink had been dripping, so the day after Christmas I went to the neighborhood hardware store to get the washers I’d need to stop the drip. The store was closed. It would not reopen until Monday, I read on the sign taped to the door. I went to Lowe’s, found the washers, went through the automatic checkout, picked up my change, and went out to the car. I took out the key and realized I had left the washers in the sack at the checkout point.
Back to the store. Two men were at the same checkout point.
Did you find…?
These yores? one asked. Here y’are podner. He handed me the little packet, which he had taken out of the sack I had put in.
Back home, I replaced the springs and washers, and that took care of the drip. But when I turned the water back on, the hot water was a mere trickle. I must have put in a couple of hours opening the patient up again, closing, opening, closing, until I figured that rusted filings in the pipes might have clogged it. I needed a specialist. I called my regular plumber.
Sorry, he told me. I’m retiring on January first. Too many forms to fill out, too much red tape. After the first, I’m going to work for the parish government as an inspector. To be part of the problem, I thought to myself.
I called a plumber in the neighborhood. He confirmed my diagnosis and showed me a T that looked like a cross section of one of those arteries in the commercials that have me talking to my doctor. It’s a wonder any water got through at all. (Reminder: Be sure to have cholesterol checked at next physical.)
He replaced some pipes and got the water flowing well again.
Not what it should be, he said. This ‘uns pretty old, so you might replace it. When you get a new one, call us and we’ll install it fer ya.
We spent another hour together, the plumber and I, in the bathroom of the upstairs rental unit. The tenants had complained of the failure of the bathtub to drain properly, largely because, as I determined, they had no screen over the drain. They could have solved the problem with a trip to the hardware store, but it’s easier to call the landlord.
The toilet isn’t flushing right, either, the tenant had told me. It hasn’t worked well for a couple of months.
He or his roommate had taken the lid off so they could manipulate the innards to flush.
I had the plumber replace the Fluidmaster. I’ve done my share of installing Fluidmasters, and I figured I’d have the him do it, and I would take his fee off the income tax. I can’t do that with my own work.
Oh, yeah, the tenant said, all the electricity has been off in one room for awhile.
That I fixed with a click of the circuit breaker. Then I picked up all the fuses that someone had scattered around the room that holds the electrical boxes (one box with breakers, one with fuses).
On the way home I stopped at the hardware store in my neighborhood to pick up a strainer for the tub. I had measured the diameter of the opening with a folded dollar bill. 1 ½ inches in diameter looked perfect. But when I went back the next day, I found that the strainer was just a bit larger than the hole. I went around the corner to the hardware store near the rental and got one that fit. Then I took the larger one back to my neighborhood store.
My father always told me, things will be better after the first of the year. He just didn’t tell me which year.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Report of my death
One of my quirks is to google names of some people I know, including myself. When I checked the e-mail this afternoon, I gulped when I read this:
Larry Lorenz Death Notice Larry Lorenz's Obituary by the Grand ...
Online death notice for Larry Lorenz. Read Larry Lorenz's life story, offer tributes/condolences, send flowers or create a Larry Lorenz online memorial.
And after I gulped, I pulled this little ditty out from deep in my files:
The New Suit
I have come from the store with a navy blue suit,
a red four-in-hand and a starched white shirt,
and black shoes so polished that they will catch
the sparkle of a ballroom chandelier
and the twinkle of candlelight in a dark restaurant.
And I shall wear them all for events of passage,
christenings and weddings and funerals—
perhaps even my own, on that morning
when grinning death appears from my closet,
as formal as a well-practiced butler,
and invites me to slip on the coat.
When I read the obit, I realized the stiff was an imposter. It isn't time for the coat quite yet.
Whew!
Larry Lorenz Death Notice Larry Lorenz's Obituary by the Grand ...
Online death notice for Larry Lorenz. Read Larry Lorenz's life story, offer tributes/condolences, send flowers or create a Larry Lorenz online memorial.
And after I gulped, I pulled this little ditty out from deep in my files:
The New Suit
I have come from the store with a navy blue suit,
a red four-in-hand and a starched white shirt,
and black shoes so polished that they will catch
the sparkle of a ballroom chandelier
and the twinkle of candlelight in a dark restaurant.
And I shall wear them all for events of passage,
christenings and weddings and funerals—
perhaps even my own, on that morning
when grinning death appears from my closet,
as formal as a well-practiced butler,
and invites me to slip on the coat.
When I read the obit, I realized the stiff was an imposter. It isn't time for the coat quite yet.
Whew!
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Now, arguably, this is, like, I mean, you know....
Pollsters at Marist College have found that we Americans are most annoyed by the use of “whatever” in conversations. Forty-seven percent of us. Another 25 percent are annoyed by “you know.”
Whatever.
I mean, my list of annoying words and phrases is long, and the older and more curmudgeonly I grow, the longer the list grows.
I mean, beginning a sentence with "I mean" annoys me no end. Especially when it is paired with “you (ya) know.”
And I, like, nearly go mad when I, like, hear the staccato repetition of "like" all day. As when students on campus say (in their lingo,"go"), like, "I mean, you know, I was like, you know. I mean...." When I get them in class and they say that in discussion, I stop them dead with “No. I do not know what you mean.” Or, “it’s not ‘like ethics’; it’s “ethics.” They look at me blankly for a second, then patiently translate what they are saying into language an old fuddy-duddy professor can understand.
Arguably, "arguably" isn't a word that's needed, but I get the impression that many writers (and some speakers) today aren't willing to make a flat statement and face argument, so they hedge with "arguably" ad nauseum.
In fact, I've wondered whether the Sulzbergers couldn't save millions on ink each year if they eliminated "arguably" and "famously" from the pages of the Times. Just this week, I read there that "Antone's Home Of The Blues was, famously, at 29th and Guadaloupe...." and that Lance Armstrong is "arguably the world's most famous endurance athlete...."
I should say, iconic New York Times which this week referred to "Maine's most iconic industry" and wrote that Irving Penn transformed cigarette butts "to iconic status." With that one, another couple of million, at least, goes down a drain on Eighth Ave. each year.
Now, television reporters like to interject "now" at the beginning of sentences--sometimes two or three in the same story. And by the time I have gotten past the "nows," I can't remember what the story was about.
I would add to my list, Brit-isms like "early on," "towards," and "amongst," and one weatherman's "one hour's time" and "in the overnight hours."
Now, some day--at the end of the day--my wife is going to find me dead on the couch in front of the tv set, a newspaper clutched in my cold, dead hand, and, my face like, I mean, you know, arguably contorted into a reasonable facsimile of Munch's famously iconic "The Scream."
Thank you for reading my rant. And, please, dear reader, do not say “No problem.”
Whatever.
I mean, my list of annoying words and phrases is long, and the older and more curmudgeonly I grow, the longer the list grows.
I mean, beginning a sentence with "I mean" annoys me no end. Especially when it is paired with “you (ya) know.”
And I, like, nearly go mad when I, like, hear the staccato repetition of "like" all day. As when students on campus say (in their lingo,"go"), like, "I mean, you know, I was like, you know. I mean...." When I get them in class and they say that in discussion, I stop them dead with “No. I do not know what you mean.” Or, “it’s not ‘like ethics’; it’s “ethics.” They look at me blankly for a second, then patiently translate what they are saying into language an old fuddy-duddy professor can understand.
Arguably, "arguably" isn't a word that's needed, but I get the impression that many writers (and some speakers) today aren't willing to make a flat statement and face argument, so they hedge with "arguably" ad nauseum.
In fact, I've wondered whether the Sulzbergers couldn't save millions on ink each year if they eliminated "arguably" and "famously" from the pages of the Times. Just this week, I read there that "Antone's Home Of The Blues was, famously, at 29th and Guadaloupe...." and that Lance Armstrong is "arguably the world's most famous endurance athlete...."
I should say, iconic New York Times which this week referred to "Maine's most iconic industry" and wrote that Irving Penn transformed cigarette butts "to iconic status." With that one, another couple of million, at least, goes down a drain on Eighth Ave. each year.
Now, television reporters like to interject "now" at the beginning of sentences--sometimes two or three in the same story. And by the time I have gotten past the "nows," I can't remember what the story was about.
I would add to my list, Brit-isms like "early on," "towards," and "amongst," and one weatherman's "one hour's time" and "in the overnight hours."
Now, some day--at the end of the day--my wife is going to find me dead on the couch in front of the tv set, a newspaper clutched in my cold, dead hand, and, my face like, I mean, you know, arguably contorted into a reasonable facsimile of Munch's famously iconic "The Scream."
Thank you for reading my rant. And, please, dear reader, do not say “No problem.”
Monday, August 17, 2009
Happy Birthday, Abby
Toward the middle of August of 1973, Kathy packed a bag for the hospital and put it by the window of our bedroom.
Her due date had been sometime in late July or early August—the exact date escapes me—but it had passed, and we were concerned. One day we went to the hospital for tests. I stood next to the doctor as he clipped an X-ray to the light panel and studied it.
“Congratulations,” he said at last, “you’re going to be a father.”
My eyes watered then just as they are doing now, as I relive the moment .
Everything was fine. The infant, our first, apparently was just enjoying the warmth and solitude of the womb until she (as it turned out) was good and ready to join us.
It was after that that Kathy packed. And every night, before getting ready for bed, I asked how she was feeling and whether that might be the night. Every night, her answer was the same: “No. Not tonight.”
On the 16th, I asked again.
“Tonight?”
“No.”
And so we went to bed. Minutes later, she shook me.
“Let’s go.”
I could have beaten a fireman in getting my clothes back on. And in getting her to the hospital.
And then we waited. Hours and hours, into the early morning.
Finally, when the child was good and ready, Kathy was wheeled into the delivery room. I put on all the protective gear so that I could be by her side. Within minutes, out came the baby. So fast and so covered with goo that I feared she would slip out of the doctor’s hands and onto the floor. But he had a firm grip, and within seconds he had her breathing and bawling. A nurse took her, cleaned her, wrapped her in a blanket, and took her to Kathy.
The baby was all pink and wrinkled with eyes shut tight.
“May I touch her?” I asked.
“Go ahead,” the doctor said. “She’s yours.”
That was 36 years ago today. Half of my lifetime ago. She has a husband and two lovely little sons. But in memory, I hold her for the first time. She is still mine.
Her due date had been sometime in late July or early August—the exact date escapes me—but it had passed, and we were concerned. One day we went to the hospital for tests. I stood next to the doctor as he clipped an X-ray to the light panel and studied it.
“Congratulations,” he said at last, “you’re going to be a father.”
My eyes watered then just as they are doing now, as I relive the moment .
Everything was fine. The infant, our first, apparently was just enjoying the warmth and solitude of the womb until she (as it turned out) was good and ready to join us.
It was after that that Kathy packed. And every night, before getting ready for bed, I asked how she was feeling and whether that might be the night. Every night, her answer was the same: “No. Not tonight.”
On the 16th, I asked again.
“Tonight?”
“No.”
And so we went to bed. Minutes later, she shook me.
“Let’s go.”
I could have beaten a fireman in getting my clothes back on. And in getting her to the hospital.
And then we waited. Hours and hours, into the early morning.
Finally, when the child was good and ready, Kathy was wheeled into the delivery room. I put on all the protective gear so that I could be by her side. Within minutes, out came the baby. So fast and so covered with goo that I feared she would slip out of the doctor’s hands and onto the floor. But he had a firm grip, and within seconds he had her breathing and bawling. A nurse took her, cleaned her, wrapped her in a blanket, and took her to Kathy.
The baby was all pink and wrinkled with eyes shut tight.
“May I touch her?” I asked.
“Go ahead,” the doctor said. “She’s yours.”
That was 36 years ago today. Half of my lifetime ago. She has a husband and two lovely little sons. But in memory, I hold her for the first time. She is still mine.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Seeking DiMaggio's Autograph
Picture a 14-year old boy standing at the door to the visitors’ locker room at the Kansas City Blues stadium in 1951. The Blues are a AAA farm team of the New York Yankees, and the Yankees are playing the Blues in the annual exhibition game the two teams play.
It’s about the fourth or fifth inning. Yankee manager Casey Stengel, having given the yokels a look at the stars of the team, has pulled them to give the second-stringers a few innings on the field. The boy’s father has told his son that it’s a good time to go try to get players’ autographs, and the boy has gone down to the locker room with his new autograph book in hand.
He especially wants DiMaggio’s autograph. The other stars, he’s not sure of. But he knows about DiMaggio. The great Joe DiMaggio.
It’s drizzling in Kansas City, but the boy doesn’t care. He’s willing to be soaked, if that’s what he has to do to get DiMaggio’s autograph.
The door opens and some men come out and hurry past the boy to one of the taxis in the line along the curb. The taxi drives off. A short man in a suit had held the door for them, and the boy asks the man if they were players. The man tells him they were. The door opens again, and more players head for taxis. They all ignore the book in the boy’s outstretched hand.
And then the short man opens he door again and DiMaggio appears in the doorway. The boy knows the face. He edges forward.
“Mr. DiMaggio, may I have your autograph?” he asks.
“Out of my way, kid,” DiMaggio says. He brushes the boy aside and hurries to a taxi.
Other players follow. They ignore the boy, too.
The disappointed boy turns to the man holding the door.
“Do you have anything to do with the team?” he asks.
“Yes,” the man says.
“Would sign my book?”
“Sure, kid.” He takes it and the pen the boy offers, signs the book and returns it.
“Thanks,” the boy says, and walks back up the ramp to the stands.
Only then does the boy look at the book. There’s the signature on the first page: “Phil Rizzuto.” And for the nearly 60 years since, he has treasured that autograph, and in all those years he has never met a finer man.
But DiMaggio? When he was grown, and anyone mentioned the great Joe DiMaggio, and he could use such words, the response he practically spat out was always the same.
“Joe DiMaggio? Fuck Joe DiMaggio.”
It’s about the fourth or fifth inning. Yankee manager Casey Stengel, having given the yokels a look at the stars of the team, has pulled them to give the second-stringers a few innings on the field. The boy’s father has told his son that it’s a good time to go try to get players’ autographs, and the boy has gone down to the locker room with his new autograph book in hand.
He especially wants DiMaggio’s autograph. The other stars, he’s not sure of. But he knows about DiMaggio. The great Joe DiMaggio.
It’s drizzling in Kansas City, but the boy doesn’t care. He’s willing to be soaked, if that’s what he has to do to get DiMaggio’s autograph.
The door opens and some men come out and hurry past the boy to one of the taxis in the line along the curb. The taxi drives off. A short man in a suit had held the door for them, and the boy asks the man if they were players. The man tells him they were. The door opens again, and more players head for taxis. They all ignore the book in the boy’s outstretched hand.
And then the short man opens he door again and DiMaggio appears in the doorway. The boy knows the face. He edges forward.
“Mr. DiMaggio, may I have your autograph?” he asks.
“Out of my way, kid,” DiMaggio says. He brushes the boy aside and hurries to a taxi.
Other players follow. They ignore the boy, too.
The disappointed boy turns to the man holding the door.
“Do you have anything to do with the team?” he asks.
“Yes,” the man says.
“Would sign my book?”
“Sure, kid.” He takes it and the pen the boy offers, signs the book and returns it.
“Thanks,” the boy says, and walks back up the ramp to the stands.
Only then does the boy look at the book. There’s the signature on the first page: “Phil Rizzuto.” And for the nearly 60 years since, he has treasured that autograph, and in all those years he has never met a finer man.
But DiMaggio? When he was grown, and anyone mentioned the great Joe DiMaggio, and he could use such words, the response he practically spat out was always the same.
“Joe DiMaggio? Fuck Joe DiMaggio.”
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