And now for something disturbing...

...from the New York Times. (Always a good place to go for that.) Check out this article on the future of billboards. New technology has apparently been developed that enables tiny cameras hidden on billboards to gather various demographic details about the people looking at the signs. (All impersonally, they say; they don't actually store images of people!) The ultimate goal, apparently, is to increase the efficacy of ads by tailoring what is displayed on the board to whomever is currently looking at it. Obviously lots of invasion of privacy concerns and the general sense that modern technology is just getting way too personal.

This was a great line, regarding places that already use the bugged billboards:

“I think a big part of why it’s accepted is that people don’t know about it,” said Lee Tien, senior staff attorney for the Electronic Frontier Foundation, a civil liberties group.

Gee, really? Does this creep anyone else out?

The Good Padre

[Since I've made no claims about what I will and will not post here, I feel completely free to write about whatever random thing comes into my head. No one may complain; you have fair warning.]

I just came back from confession at St. Rita's, my parish in the Arlington diocese. I have to say: I think we've been blessed with an unusual number of excellent priests here, and the ones at St. Rita's are especially good. The "celebrity" priest there is Father Scalia, son of Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia. He is as rock-solid as they come, and old-school in a way that is awesome in the pulpit and slightly unnerving in the confessional. (The one time I went to confession with him, I came out feeling like I had been walking blithely along a country footpath in the hills, only to come around a bend in the road and find the brink of Hell falling sharply to one side.)

But I think Father Donahue, the pastor, is the parish favorite. He has a boyish-young face with rosy cheeks, a gentle voice, and a perpetually cheerful expression. His homilies are solid, but not earth-shaking; they generally have a teaching tone to them, aimed at about a 5th grade CCD level. It's the man himself who is impressive. When I called him this afternoon to set up an appointment, he told me he'd be sitting in the church praying his breviary at 4:30 and I was welcome to come then. I arrived a little before him and was praying in preparation for the sacrament, when I heard him come in.

Actually, what I heard was the sound of his crutches; he walks with the aid of two braces like those used by polio victims. The story that goes around the parish (first related to me by my gregarious Italian next-door neighbor) is that Father was hit in the leg in a random drive-by shooting when he was in his early 20's. Apparently there was some damage to his spine as well, perhaps from ricochet, though I'm fuzzy on that. He only makes the full trek down the center aisle for the Sunday Processional, using the more direct route to and from the sacristy at the front of the church at all other times. He sits on a barstool behind the altar for most of the Mass, and an acolyte brings it down to the front of the sanctuary for him to sit on while administering Communion; another acolyte holds the ciborium for him so he can steady himself on his crutch with one hand. (I've heard the altar servers love him, and they're the best-trained little group of 6-10 year olds I've seen.)

Father hobbled his way into the pew ahead of me, pulled a seat cushion apparently out of thin air, and settled himself down. As I slid over behind him, he glanced around the church, noted that it was empty except for us two, then smiled at me and asked in a normal tone, "So what can I do for you?" I leaned on the back of his pew and launched into a confession that was more like a neighborly chat over a picket fence; he nodded thoughtfully and calmly with that half-smile on his face as I went along, and it was obvious I'd have to come out with some real whoppers to get anywhere close to shocking this man. We talked, among other things, about the difficulty of getting to Mass because of physical pain, and he commiserated in a way that made it clear he is often in terrible pain himself, though he never really said so.

In fact, I can't now remember exactly what he said, but he gave me the sense that he understood pain and its effects on a person, that he is peaceful about his own, and that it's something that can be gently incorporated into a person's life. I mean, there's the knocking-one's-head-against-a-brick-wall approach that rails pointlessly against something that can't be changed; there's the helpless victim approach that takes ailment as an excuse to back out of every reasonable obligation; and then there's his approach: accept it gracefully as a mystery permitted by God, continue to do the best you can, and understand that the "best" may be comparatively little. Push yourself to do even that little bit, and it will have the weight of the outwardly impressive acts of virtue performed by the (enviably) hale and hearty. End of story.

Sometimes it's frustrating to have things put so simply: "You don't understand! The circumstances! The complications! The intricacy of the psychological--" Hooey. It is that simple. But not even Father Donahue would claim that "simple" equals "easy", so I can still find wiggle-room for complaining. Until my next confession, anyway...

Recipe!

Next on the list of "good things recently discovered": the definitive Cuban recipe for mojitos. Mmmm...

I had my first mojito at Paradise Cove -- a fairly old restaurant that sits directly on the sandy beach of Malibu, where movie stars used to go during the 40's and 50's. (Long wait for your dinner? No worries! Go sit in an Adirondack chair on the sand under a tiki torch and listen to the pounding surf...) Since then, I haven't yet found any other restaurant that can make one of these decently, though I've been craving them ever since. My "How to Cook Everything" cookbook apparently didn't think them worth mentioning. One website that claimed to provide the "official Cuban recipe" made something that tasted like Tom's of Maine Herbal Cough Syrup.

My friend Cristina is half Cuban, so when I told her of my mojito frustrations, she obligingly called her uncle in Havana. This is what he gave us:

In a glass, add 4 mint leaves, 3 tsp. powdered sugar, and the juice of 1/2 a lime. Muddle. [This evidently means "smash together with the end of a blunt object until the sugar is dissolved, but the mint leaves are still recognizable as such."] Add 1 oz. rum and "some" shaved ice. Stir. Add 1 oz. club soda or sparkling water. Serves 1. [Well, you'll probably want more than one.]

They're absolutely wonderful.

Something productive

I am one of those people who usually champion the idea of "being" over "doing." You know -- slow down and figure out why you're doing all these things to begin with! What if we're all just meant to "exist beautifully", as a friend said recently? What would that look like? And I usually have some notion of it including things like reading more great books, spending leisurely hours out-of-doors, noticing little beautiful things, and so on.

But my seven weeks of inactivity have led me to the sorrowful conclusion that I don't know what this looks like and am not naturally inclined towards it even if I did. I could be writing letters, spending time in contemplative prayer, picking up those books I have thoughtfully earmarked for "later", whenever that is. Instead, I'm shocked to discover that May is almost over and I've spent most of it online. Doing nothing. (I don't consider spending hours on YouTube "something.")

Well, not nothing, exactly. I have watched a lot of classic films that have been on my list to see for quite a while. But nothing beyond that. So even while I'm hoping that my confinement is going to end soon, I'm now somewhat wishing it could go on a bit longer to give me time to do it "right." The discussion about great Catholic literature at Inside Catholic is partly responsible for this; I've read about half those books, but could definitely stand to reread all of them. And the others I've never even heard of! More to add to that list of "laters!" Or better yet, start making later "now."

So, to all my fledgling readers: what would you read if you had the leisure? What else would you do, if lying on your back were all you could do? Be creative! I sure haven't been...

Good stuff

First entry on the list of "good things I enjoy" that I've recently discovered is this guy. I can't say I really care as much for his original songs, but his covers of classics, like this one, are fantastic. In fact... I think they're better than the originals in some cases.

Oh, and speaking of which, look out Rat Pack -- here comes Charlie Green! (Where do 10-year-old kids get this kind of poise and self-confidence? To say nothing of charm... good grief.)

A new experiment

As I'm on week I-forget-exactly-which of my enforced confinement -- seven come this Friday, I think -- it seems like a good time to try to do something constructive with all of the time on my hands. This is highly experimental yet, of course; once I'm back up and running, I'm not sure what a full-time graduate student with classes, a dissertation, an assistantship, and an externship will be able to produce of any interest or length. (Other than extremely long sentences, like that one. I'm always able to produce those.)

Whatever else I might end up doing with this, I will hopefully never again be guilty of neglecting to inform friends or family members of key events in my very-frenetic-but-strangely-difficult- to-describe life. Like -- oh, being on bed-rest for seven weeks due to a back injury, as a random example. (*cough, Joseph cough, cough*)

Beyond that, a friend once recommended keeping a list of all the things in life one particularly enjoys as a defense against gloominess. I started one, once; I think it contained everything from Easter Vigil Mass to glass-fronted cupboards and the smell of warm pine needles. I want this blog to be something like that list, somehow: an outlet for remembering and remarking on all the other things in life besides graduate school -- a place to "leave comfort root-room."