Only in Detroit would anyone understand the logic of linking the lowly octopus and the lovely Karen Newman in the same sentence. The common denominator, of course, being our beloved Red Wings and their annual post-Easter pursuit of the Stanley Cup. People throw octopi on the ice during the games, while Karen Newman (complete with platinum hair and plunging necklines) sings the National Anthem before the games. The octopus has eight legs (tentacles) which once symbolized the eight wins it took to claim Lord Stanley’s trophy. But times have changed. Now it takes 16 wins, thereby requiring (I suppose) two octopi.
Not By Bread Alone
On a day in October, coming back from Chicago, I stopped in Grand Rapids for a round of golf, stealing 18 holes from the greedy jaws of winter. On a 200 yard par three, I dropped my tee shot five feet from the pin and proceeded to sink the putt. Since it was the only time I matched or beat par all day, I smiled at my partner, shook hands around the foursome, and thanked the prevailing gods of golf for their uncommon and surprising beneficence.
Maundy Thursday
As each group announced its sentence on God, cheers of approval went up from the throng. Then, suddenly, there was silence. A long silence. No one moved or made a sound. There was utter silence in heaven. Because someone quietly pointed out to the multitude that God had already served that sentence.
Made in Heaven—Some Assembly Required
When I was a kid in grade school, sending and receiving valentines was more about popularity than affection. Getting a bunch meant that you were the king or queen of the class. Getting a few meant that you were the dud or crud of the class. Reading them was fun. But counting them (assuming there were enough to cover your desk and spill onto the floor) was even more fun.