Happy Birthday!
Happiest of birthday wishes to my wee niece & faux goddaughter (or "godlessdaughter"), The Squeak! It is amazing, startling, & a little terrifying to see how swiftly she is growing up, already no longer a baby & on the cusp of being a real little girl. The Squeak talks up a storm, though its not always easy to understand what she's saying, especially as she still favors a pacifier (or "binky"). I love that little monkey to pieces, & it grieves me that I don't get to see her more often. Happy birthday, Natalie!

Urbi et Orbi
I bowled last Friday, which my chums from the History Club, & when asked later if I'd had a good time I replied as I always reply after bowling, "I'll say the same thing I always say after I go bowling, & it's as true now it it was then, 'I should go bowling more often.'" I gave my confession this evening, that is to say I partook of the Sacrament of Reconciliation. I'll say the same thing I always say after Reconciliation, I should go to confession more often. It does my soul palpable good.

This evening's was my first communal reconciliation service, more formally the Rite of Reconciliation of Several Penitents with Individual Confession & Absolution. The festivities kicked off much like a shortened Mass, but in place of the Eucharistic celebration there was communal reflection on the shortcomings of each of our attempts at lives of Christ-like imitation, & the splendor of His boundless mercy. After that, we queued & each give his individual confession, eight priests being scattered at discreet distances around the nave of Holy Family. (There was a similar service Tuesday night at my own parish, Holy Redeemer (H.R.), but I was exhausted by the time the evening rolled around, in no shape to make a proper confession of my many sins.) By chance, I confessed to my own pastoral vicar, Father Steve. Father Steve's penances are lighter than Father Tim's were when the latter ran H.R., but I don't mean to complain.

It seems that every parish is struggling with the new translation of the Roman Missal. Amongst other bits of new language & gesture,

Priest: "Peace be with you."
Parish: "And also with you."

is now

Priest: "Peace be with you."
Parish: "And with your spirit."

As Father Gary joked a few weeks back at Holy Redeemer, just give us forty years & we'll have it down pat.

Autobahn
Everywhere I look I'm seeing New Beetle convertibles—not New Beetle hardtops, only New Beetle ragtops. I've never understood why anyone would want a cabriolet, especially in a clime such as sacred Michigan's. Not only does a droptop expose the driver & his passengers to the death rays of the Accursed Sun, but in the winter it cannot provide nearly as much insulation as a fixed roof, making the interior of the vehicle that much colder at all hours of the day & night. Madness! Madness, I say!

Anywho, I had a telephone conversation last weekend about the end of the New Beetle/the arrival of the no-longer-New new Beetle. My conversational partner lamented the demise of the cut-as-a-button New Beetle. The cuteness was the only thing the New Beetle had going for it, I told him, & that wore thin after a few tears. 1998 is a long time gone, amigo; you can't live in the past. The new Beetle is a more viable alternative to the burgeoning lineup of Minis & the arrival of the Fiat 500 than the New Beetle, I insisted, but he'd hear none of it. I wasn't terribly invested in making the case for the new Beetle, as he was the one who brought up the topic in the first place, but it was still irksome that all he offered in refutation was, "Nuh-uh, it is way cuter!" (I paraphrase.) Since then, it's been convertible New Beetles everywhere I turn. Your guess is as good as mine.

Of course, there's no point in discussion the New Beetle, much less the New Beetle convertible, unless 'tis as a vehicle for this gem: Bill Briggs-link. This commercial remains a perfectly preserved moment in time, regardless of that earlier hogwash about not living in the past.

The Rebel Black Dot Christmas Song of the Day
Sufjan Stevens, "Jingle Bells" from Songs for Christmas (T.L.A.M.)

Commentary: Wishful thinking, as there is not enough—indeed, not any—snow on the ground for a ride in a one-horse open sleigh.