From: Dixie Davis To: johnny at charm.net Date: Aug 14, 2006 2:34 AM Subject: A Little Knowledge is a Dangerous Thing A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and a little knowledge is what I gain when I read Spanish newspapers. And since All Knowledge Resides in the Johnnie List, I turn to you for information. Events (which I may relate later) led me to reading just such a newspaper today. And since Much Knowledge is Contained in Tourtelott's Head, I called Jim for information, but curiously, he knew even less than I did. Who is Antonio Mohamed? Is he Turkish? I gather that he is a futboler for Mexico, or some Spanish speaking country. How did he come to be there? He brought his son Faryd (one of 4 sons) to Germany for the World Cup, and on June 30, something happened involving a Mercedes traveling at more than 190 km/hr, which tore the (pickup? that's what I know camioneta to mean, but they really don't have many pickups in Germany, unless it was a pickup towing a motorhome, which he had mentioned earlier) in two. Mohamed's son suffered massive, fatal injuries, and he (Mohamed) has apparently lost part of his left arm (his veins and arteries disappeared, leaving bone, nothing more), and I think he lost a leg too, but I'm not sure about that. This would seem to dash any intentions of playing in future World Cups. And while I have long bemoaned my own "generous" measurements (in fact, I long ago stopped measuring the circumference of my waist and hips) I decided that I'd really like to measure 89-59-90, because those are the measurements of Ariadne Artiles, a Spanish model, and she's really hot. I had an 11:30 meeting today, to which I had to take a very roundabout route due to road construction. I ended up on the northwest side of I-10 and Vance Jackson. I needed to go east, or, barring, that, north to Loop 410 and thence east and thence south. But I couldn't go east on Vance Jackson, and couldn't go north on I-10. I went south for several exits, until I figured out that I'd end up in downtown San Antonio before I found a way to cross I-10 (all crossroads seeming to be blocked off due to construction.) So I headed west, which took me nowhere near where I wanted to be, and tried to head north (this ended up not working, due to one way streets and barriers, but that's a later story.) I passed by St. Mary Magadalene Catholic Church. It was pushing 12:45, long past the time I figured Mass would be over, but there were people milling outside the church, and in the vestibule. Something was clearly happening at the church. I saw some women with a table set up, selling pieces of cake. I was quite hungry, not having eaten since yesterday, when all I had to eat all day was 1/4 of a calzone. Catholic churches are good places to obtain cheap barbecue plates, if they're having a feast day or some sort of fundraiser (usually $5 or $6 for brisket, sometimes sausage too, plus beans, potato salad, coleslaw, pickles, onions, and of course white bread). So I parked and approached the church. Music with an upbeat tempo spilled out from within, while the sound of hands clapping could clearly be heard emanating from the sanctuary. This was very much not in keeping with my experience with Catholic church services. I tend to avoid all church services, but especially Catholic ones, for a variety of reasons, mainly because I'm atheist, but also because all the Catholic services I've sat through, with the endless communion, were so *boring*! This was far livelier than what I was used to (it probably doesn't help that what I'm used to is mainly weddings and funerals). As I approached the sanctuary, I was given the opportunity to purchase a raffle ticket for $5, the grand prize for which, I learned from reading the sign, was a 2006 Toyota Rav 4 or Tacoma. I declined, being mostly broke. I did take them up on the opportunity to buy a piece of cake for 50 cents. A man wearing a Knights of Columbus jacket was milling about with a clipboard, but he didn't approach me and I neglected to strike up a conversation with him. There was, I saw, a sign offering me the opportunity to buy a plate for a barbecue fundraiser, but the dinner, alas, would not be held unti August 27. I went up the steps and into the vestibule. A sign on the entrance to the church announced menudo, tacos, and fresh corn tortillas. I wondered where one obtained those, but I doubted I would find them in the sanctuary. Inside, I could see that apparently, they were still holding forth with Mass/communion at 12:45, and the joyful singing and clapping were the music to fill in the time during communion. (Silly me, growing up in a very small Methodist church, was used to maybe one song played by the organ or piano during our monthly communion service. That, or silence.) A guitar gave accompaniment to the music, but I heard no organ or piano. The sanctuary was packed. The vestibule was full. People were milling about and filing in and out during the service. This, too, was a big difference from the way I was brought up. I had been to enough services to know that Catholics and Episcopalians keep themselves awake through repeated variations of kneeling, standing, and sitting, but in the Methodist and Baptist churches of my youth, you sat your little butt in that pew and it better not move until the service was over, except for the time or two we stood up to sing a hymn (lots of hymns were sung sitting down, but we stood up for one or two of them) and sharing the Peace. Church services were a struggle to keep from falling asleep until the end of the hour (or more) of the service. I was unaccustomed to the idea that one could get up and mill about at random. Up at the altar, the priest wiped his brow. I'm sure the air conditioning was on, but it just made a dent in a building packed with people, with its front doors wide open. People fanned themselves with bulletins or other pieces of paper. A man led a young woman, who carried a basket containing those rather tasteless little wafers, back to the vestibule. He asked if anyone else wanted communion. A woman took the wafer that the young woman offered her (I thought the priest was supposed to give you the wafer?) Wine didn't seem to be forthcoming to those unwilling to make the trek to the altar. The man leading the young woman asked me if I wanted to partake of communion. I declined. They went back towards the altar. I saw two young men carring baskets on longish poles, the collection baskets, come towards the rear of the church. I busied myself with the pamphlets and brochures in the vestibule. One touted a link between birth control, abortion, infanticide, and Columbine. Others talked about Natural Family Planning, which, they claim is 99% effective (far more effective than the birth control pill, so they say) and they also say that the Pill is far more dangerous than carrying a pregnancy to term. Given that first trimester abortion is 9 times safer than carrying a pregnancy to term, I find their claims dubious at best. Figuring I had about exhausted my time at St. Mary Magdalene, I exited the vestibule and headed towards my truck. I was again accosted by a man offering me the chance to buy a ticket for the August 27 fundraiser, but said I didn't know if I'd be around then. I learned it was for a woman who had been a pedestrian when she was struck by an 18 wheeler, then run over by a car, but through the miracle of God she survived but needed much rehab. I asked about the tacos and menudo, and learned that the church served breakfast every Sunday. It was long past breakfast, so I figured the menudo had long since been consumed or stored away. Back in my truck, I turned down the one-way street, which took me......back to I-10 southbound. I finally went west, and found a cheap Mexican restaurant, which is where I encountered the little Spanish newspaper which seems to be inordinately enamored with futbolers and how much skin various Latinamerican models are willing to show in magazine spreads. Given my fondness for men with soccer-player bodies, I was pleased to find that Jorge Campos, the goalie for the '94 and '98 Mexican World Cup teams, and the assistant coach for the 2006 Mexican team (not that they did that well in the World Cup) has set up a school in San Antonio. Not that there's much chance of me finding myself at that school, of course, but I can dream of lithe bodies brimming with stamina, running endlessly after a stupid ball. Dixie, who figures she's put in her church time for 2006