Six Elements Common to Many Woody Allen Movies

1) New York City.

2) Good '40's big band jazz (and often classical music) on the soundtrack.

3) Woody Allen playing a neurotic character who is a real schmuck.

4) Relationship "issues" typical to upper-income Mannhattan types and, therefore, his own rather messy life.

5) Modern Philosophy [I mean real 'old-fashioned' modern philosophy - Nietsche, Sartre, etc. - nothing post-modern (although "Deconstructing Harry" might be an exception - I haven't seen it), very little before Descartes. He will mention Plato or Aristotle, but clearly doesn't take them seriously, isn't interested, etc.].

6) References to old movies, sometimes cleverly integrated, like Shakespeare's "play within a play" as in Hamlet (e.g. the way "Double Indemnity" is worked into the climactic shoot-out scene in "Manhattan Murder Mystery")

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Of course, I haven't seen all of his movies, and - I suppose I neeed to specify for some of my readers - I fully recognize that parts of them are terrible, but parts of them are hilarious and they can be cleverly done.

Liturgy Joke

In discussing with someone the new English translation of the Mass, which, among other things, will render "et cum spiritu tuo" more correctly as "and with your spirit." (it would be too much to hope for "and with thy spirit") we wondered out loud how easily many Catholics will be able to make the switch. The still current ICEL translation, "and also with you," is so ingrained that at the one Anglican Use Mass held at Christendom about five years ago, the otherwise very conservative students just instinctively replied, "And also with you" - even though for the Anglican Use requires "and with thy spirit," which was carefully printed in the program.

This reminded me of the joke about the priest who was having trouble with his microphone at the beginning of Mass and then, as he was saying to himself, "there must be some problem with the microphone," it suddenly went on.

The people instinctively, without thinking, replied, "and also with you."

Poetry at Christendom! (Cancelled)

Update: Sorry, just found out this evening that it was cancelled.

Tonight, Tuesday October 7, at 8 PM in St. Kilian's Cafe. The poetry of Pavel Chichikov. A live reading by the poet himself. 'Pavel Chichikov' is the pen name of an American who spent part of the Cold War on Soviet territory. His wrting career goes back to the 1970's, when he published poems in The New Yorker, well before his reception into the Catholic Church in 1988. He has published two books of poetry, and his photography has won awards from the catholic Press Association. He lives in Washington, D.C.
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Oh, and happy Feast of the Holy Rosary. Say at least one rosary to our Blessed Mother today! (I went to the Tridentine Mass at the College this morning which is now scheduled for every Tuesday at 7:30 AM and Thursday at 5:15 PM!)

Latin Saying About National Vocal Characteristics

"Galli cantant,

Italiae capriant,

Germani ululant,

Anglici jubilant."




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Tough to translate, but I think it would be rendered:

"The French sing,

the Italians bray,

the Germans howl,

the English joyfully shout.


(quoted by Ornithoparcus, "Micrologus," 1517)

Texas Schola Dawg Meets His Mentor

Polly was in the choir director's office on a Saturday afternoon cleaning and straightening things up. Not that he had asked her to do so, but it needed doing. She had gotten a key from one of the sacristans. The Director was brilliant, but disorganized. No domestic sense. She sighed to herself, "a typical man." As she walked out the door to fill up a bucket with water, she almost ran straight into her archnemesis Texas Schola Dawg. "I dreamt about your long blonde hair last night, heh, heh, heh," he said, leering at her.

She rolled her eyes. Polly was used to this, but still couldn't quite understand it. It's not that she wasn't proud of her hair, but this tendency of some men to detach parts of a woman's body and almost bow down and worship them like little idols always puzzled her. She wouldn't mind a man loving a feature of hers because it was part of her - the woman whom he loved - but this was . . . yuck . . . . She was even more annoyed that Texas Schola Dawg, of all people, was a stimulus to philosophical reflection. Whatever.

"What do you want?"

"Well, now that you ask, darlin', heh, heh, heh . . ." Polly felt pretty stupid. That certainly was the wrong question to ask.

"I need to get in there and borrow a copy of Durufle's 'Ubi caritas,' it's not on cpdl . . ."

"so you can then make some illegal photocopies?" she completed. "Oh no you don't! The copyright to that piece is still in effect!" She had mistakenly left both of the double doors open, and he tried to pass to her left side. She moved and blocked his way. Then he tried to go around her right side. She blocked him again. He tried another move but she kept with him. Polly felt like some sort of silly combination offensive guard/beginning ballroom dance student. She could think of better ways to spend her Saturday afternoon.

Finally Texas Schola Dawg stopped, but with the biggest sinister grin on his face she had ever seen. "Well if you're not going to let me borrow 'Ubi caritas,' then perhaps I am going to have to show you 'where love REALLY is,'" he said pointing to his puckered lips. "Oh, no, what am I going to do now?" thought Polly. "There is no way Uzi could get here this fast and, besides, he is out of range on a special mission in the Diocese of Las Vegas, Nevada." Yes, that's right. Las Vegas. A place where the stakes are high - and the Masses are low.

Uzi had his hands full enough as it was.

Texas Schola Dawg reared back ready to charge her. He looked like a raging bull, albeit one who had just sucked on a lemon. She decided she had to be a dancer rather than an offensive guard at that point, so, executing a quick left chasse to get out of his way, she let her right foot drag just enough so he tripped over it. Flying through the air into the office, he landed on the music table which she had just polished. The slickness of its newly polished surface catapulted him head first right into the file cabinets where he lay unconscious. Little stars circled around his head just like in a cartoon.

Next something strange happened. Was he dreaming it or was it real? He felt a big hand pick him up by the scruff of the neck and pull him out of the choir director's office into another dimension. Another dimension of time and space? . . . of greatness? . . . of blogdom? . . . of . . . of . . . Was it really him? THE MAN himself?

Yes, it was.

Anthony Smitha.

Small-time pool hustler, devout Catholic, and one-time proprietor of a bebop record shop, Anthony currently works in computers. He is better known, however, as what the IRS designates as a "GNF," or Gentleman Nuisance Flirt - a role model, mentor, and gold standard for all such men worldwide.

He held Texas Schola Dawg by the scruff of his neck while his little legs kicked in the air. "Bad doggie. You've been a bad little feller," Anthony roared. He next administered a quick firm admonitory tap with his right index finger to the dog's nose. Then, having been dropped to the ground, Texas Schola Dawg quickly assumed a prostrate posture of worship before his hero. "Oh, sire, what have I done to incur your wrath?"

"Get off your knees. I'm not God. So don't worship me . . . too much!" "Haw, haw, haw, I pulled your leg there little feller," he said in a big booming voice, almost like the Jolly Green Giant. "You have been way out of line and giving us GNF's - and the State of Texas - a bad name. Don't you remember our Latin motto?" Texas Schola Dawg pronounced it slowly, syllable by syllable, like a catechism answer he had learned in childhood, "Sem-per vex-a-re, num-quam pec-ca-re." (Always to Annoy, Never to Sin). "If you are going to annoy a woman, let it be without sin. That is the code of the Gentleman Nuisance Flirt," Anthony said sagely. "Never actually touch the woman," he emphasized. "I have been watching you for some time and you have real talent. A God-given gift to annoy women, so use it properly, don't abuse it!"

[Editor's Note: Although the Federal Government does allow for the deduction of business expenses on a special Schedule C-GNF it actually stands for "General Nuisance Flirt." Not "Gentleman Nuisance Flirt." But don't tell Anthony that. Or Dr. Poterack. It will ruin the premise for his entire story.]

"But what is the concrete advantage of being a gentleman? Do the women ever actually respond to you?" Texas Schola Dawg asked. Anthony was caught by surprise and replied quite candidly, "Well usually I am just told 'no,' but I also have been slapped, kneed in the groin, and had ice water poured down my back. At the end of the day, however, I know that the ladies respect me and THIS is the advantage of being a Gentleman Nuisance Flirt." Having listened carefully to what he just said, Anthony was seized by a sudden inner doubt, but, squeezing hard, he fought it off. "I gotta do it for the kid. I gotta do it for the kid."

Then he delivered his coup de grace, "And, if all else fails, its just fun to annoy women!"

"But how did you get your start?" Texas Schola Dawg asked. "Well, I started out doing small things when I was a boy." Anthony said, "I used to make nuisance phone calls collect to a girl who, being so impressed by my technique, would accept the charges. I knew I had a gift. It blossomed from there. You have a gift, too," he said giving an encouraging wink.

Anthony was about to hand him a list of tips:

1) Pray the rosary
2) Lift weights
3) Fanatical devotion to Dr. Poterack
4) Shop at Jos. Banks
5) Cornball sense of humor.

He quickly scratched out number three, saying to himself, "the kid's just not ready for the big leagues yet."

"Anything else, oh, great one," said Texas Schola Dawg feeling a renewed vigor in his vocation.

"Oh, yes, here's a zinger I want you to use on Polly. Get ready for this one: 'Polly, frankly beauty makes me want to vomit, so, on this - the first anniversary of us not dating - I want to show you just how beautiful I think you are.'"

"Haw, haw, haw . . ."

"Heh, heh, heh . . ."

Polly stood in front of an unconscious Texas Schola Dawg, lying on the floor in front of the filing cabinets in the Choir Director's Office. She actually began to feel sorry for him. Then, all of the sudden, she heard him laugh in his unconscious state, "heh, heh, heh . . ."

"Oh no!" thought Polly, "Oh no!"

The Steps!

It looks like, after 3 years, the steps to my apartment will finally be finished. My landlord is so close to finishing that I think it will take only 4 more days. I would like to have some sort of an after-dinner party, with plenty of time for socializing, but would culminate in watching Hitchcock's "The 39 Steps." I have never seen it, but it fits in with the occasion as a kind of joke. We could watch something else. Before I send out anything more formal, let me know if this would be problematic. (I come to you first, my faithful blog readers.)

Although it should take only 4 more days, anything from bad weather to inertia could intervene. I will give him a little extra time just to be safe.

My first thought was Saturday evening, October 11, although now I see that that is Homecoming, so I doubt people would be interested. Perhaps, Sunday evening October 12? I don't want to conflict with Jonathan D.'s listening event, but I don't know if he is continuing it anyway. Perhaps Col. Klink could chime in on that one.

If this doesn't work, perhaps we can wait until after Fall Break as I will be doing a workshop in Wisconsin, and then in Michigan for the rest of the week. Sometime in November?
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P.S. And if not this event, then (and perhaps it would be better) at another event I want you alumni "liturgy hounds" to meet Fr. William - an absolutely fascinating treasure trove of information on all sorts of scholarly and gossipy things about the liturgy. I mean discussion AT LENGTH. Being the sensitive 90's male, I would like to "facilitate" this. Also you need to see him and Mickey Krebs together, as I did after my talk Tuesday. They are frightfully naughty together!

Story of My Birth

Well, since the whole birthday thing is out now, I suppose I can tell what I was told happened when I was born. (Mom, feel free to jump in and correct me if I am wrong on anything or if you wish to add something).

I was born at home - very unusual for the time, and delivered by my father - extremely unusual for the time. This was a time when husbands were not typically even in the delivery room, and it's not that my father was a doctor. He was an artist. I suppose he might have been tempted to sketch the event, but that is another story.

It was near the due date and the labor pains came suddenly and violently. My mom couldn't even move. Fortunately my mother was standing near the bed, so my dad was able to lower her to the bed. [He once said he "pushed her," but I was never quite sure when my dad was joking. (Sorry to be somewhat indiscreet, but) he also used to say that when my mom was pregnant with me, he used to tap rhythms on her stomach and that I would tap them back in utero. He always said this with a perfectly straight face, but it can't be true . . .) Anyway, my grandmother (my mom's mom) was already in the house for some reason. I believe she called the ambulance, but this woman - who had had five children of her own - would not go into the bedroom to be with her daughter. She nervously paced outside in the hallway, leaving the job totally to her son-in-law - who had had no experience, first-hand (obviously) or second-hand, with childbirth.

I guess I was born very quickly because it was before the ambulance came. This is one of the reasons I was called "Kurt" (from "currere," to flow, i.e. quick). Apparently my left shoulder was out of its socket, so my dad just popped it back into place. (That was so typical of my dad. I am sure he even found it mildly amusing.) When the ambulance arrived he had to follow behind in the car. He said that it was only then, when he put his left hand on the steering wheel, that he realized it was asleep. There was no feeling from having supported my mom's lower back during the whole procedure. (Of course the feeling did come back to his hand eventually.)

Apparently the custom then was to keep the mother and child in the hospital for three days. Well, what to do with my older brother Karl who was 1 1/2 at that time? Since there really was no such thing as "paternity leave," and my dad had to get back to work, Karl was left with one of my mom's girlfriends - a married lady with several children of her own. Of course, even with a father's constant presence, a 1 1/2 year old is going to miss his mother.

After I was brought back home with my mother, Karl didn't yet know of my existence. When he came home he gave my mother the cold shoulder for having "deserted him." Apparently he sat on his rocking horse rocking away, ignoring her when she talked to him (I think also ignoring a proferred sucker). Suddenly he heard me cry out from the other room. Jumping off of his rocking horse to investigate this strange sound, he discovered his younger brother with whom he was completely fascinated. All was forgotten and forgiven.

Although apparently the gentle fraternal feelings wore off. From what I remember, for the next ten years - boys being boys - he would wrestle me to the ground 2-3 times a week after dinner and sit on my face. But that, truly, is another story . . .