If the old saying of “in like a lion, out like a lamb” holds true, with reference to March’s arrival, than its inverse of going out like lion will be the case, hopefully not. A springlike tease has been prevalent in these parts for the past few day. I’m loving it. Maybe Punxsutawney Phil got it right for once.
Groundhog Day is long behind us and St. Patrick’s Day is within sight. My beloved ospreys will be returning on that day to summon the arrival of spring. It’s a yearly ritual I’ve kept track of for about the past four or five years, like clockwork, an avian biological study in my backyard, my own Sparrows of Capistrano, sort of.
Used to be we’d only celebrate a handful of holidays dedicated to something, like President’s, Martin Luther King’s, Thanksgiving, Memorial, Labo(u)r, Independence, Arbor, Valentines, Mother’s, Father’s, birth, Election, and forgive me if forgetting any.
Then came Grandparents’ Day, which was cool with me even though both pairs had died before I was born. Earth Day was next, but still manageable as far as a short list of special days goes.
Who made it the rule that every date on the Gregorian calendar now has to have a name attached to it? Doughnut Day, Pizza Day, Coffee Day, Chocolate Day, Beer Day, Don’t Give a Shit Day, pardon my vulgarity, or 365 of them exist. Then there’s Leap Year Day to add one more, which happened two days ago.
It’s gotten to the point of being annoying, but I’m still not supposed to rant and rave. My resolution for Lent still stands and I’ve already broken it for bitching on Twitter about Facebook and getting no respect.
Limbo’s not around anymore which means I’m a good candidate for going straight to Hell; but I’m trying to repent so there’s hope for me yet. Anyone got some Indulgences for sale? Probably not since they were only good for Hades’ intermediary, like a Monopoly “Stay Out of Jail” card. Oh yeah, I forgot one: All Souls Day.
Wonder what happened to all the souls leftover in Limbo when the place was declared null and void? I bet they were pissed off for all their time spent on sizzle and slow burn, rather than char-broiled and burnt to a crisp (pardon my trash mouth again).
That would be like setting all the political prisoners at Gitmo free after closing it down and saying it never existed. I figured since religion is being discussed in this essay, politics should be added for full effect.
As a kid, I was an altar boy with intentions of become a priest. That was until puberty and those hormones came rushing in. Hey, that would be a great name for a song. Quite apropos for Mardi Gras and New Orleans, another special day behind us.
A nun in grammar school told stories about those who had the “Calling” and never answered it. Walking down the street was not safe anymore, for a dastardly fate rested assuredly in one’s future. Personal degradation, unforeseen devastation leading to annihilation and self-destruction were the story lines.
Never succeeding in life, getting struck by a car while crossing the street, mowed over by a train that came out of nowhere after one’s car stalled on the tracks; crushed into a puddle of blood, guts and flattened bones by a falling crane from forty-five stories up; poisoned by pizza on Pizza Day; no day was safe, as in nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition…
However, from not accepting the call, what happened to me was a result of Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll!
That’s my excuse. What’s yours?