It's a trip over to the Muscapad, my parents' house sitting in limbo on a cul-de-sac. That is an appropriate indicator of family affairs and one surviving parent. There are two laundry loads, not large but let's say in the same two time honored---or otherwise---main groupings the male of the species has followed for eons. The hose renders porous a synonym of "solid" and with no help from siblings I suppose I will be purchasing another as I count on what turns out to be a disappointing spell of rain for Monday.

The mail appears to be tapering off but for some reason the Powers have not seen fit to forward the archdiocesan paper, which probably could give Mom some time reading. I assemble my tenor sax for some practice, another good use for a practically empty house, and do some reading while practicing my mixolydian scales in thirds.

When they are in an issue the film reviews, drawn from some Catholic office, draw my attention and here is one for "Iron Lady". Of course Merle Streep's performance is praised; the othwerwise disapproving reviews elsewhere in the print media allow as much. But this overall review is positive, making me choke on a relatively pliant reed when it declares one of her great traits to be "pro-life."

Really? Someone who utterly brown-nosed Auguste Pinochet? Boy, the Tidings projectile vomits with copious volume tomes about the dignity of life, atrocity of capital punishment, the sanctity of the poor and the self preoccupied myopia of everyday life---especially when the latter cares not about whence the cheap shoes and fuel (yes it is---forget it, the intense research demanded of me as Catholic school student would only render me an outcast here). But once upon a time there was a tin drum slammed in as shrill and brutal a manner as the one against abortion.

The one against communism.

Oh. Stupid me. I'd like to say livid me, but it's more like lost.