Lost In Time

Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later.

Last week, out on disability, I'm putting about, going from room to room, waiting for the water to boil so I can make my lunch. I turn on the tube, scan up and down the dial, then settle on EWTN. There's a mass on, and the priest is beginning his homily. Okay. Perhaps a good spiritual message is what I need to return to the proper frame of mind. I sit down and begin watching and listening.

And I'm mesmerized. About the priest. He's the leader of an order called Fathers of Mercy. He's atypical for a Catholic priest, or at least it seems so to me. He's ... hmm ... rugged? Is labeling him "manly" to demeaning to the remaining brave and worthy men of the cloth? It must be the priest's beard, I decide. You don't see too many beards on priests. At least, not in my experience. Perhaps I'm not making any sense (note: I never claim to). Perhaps I'm being less than charitable. But nevertheless, I'm riveted with what this guy is saying.

In fact, I watch the whole thing. His sermon goes on past the five minutes I assumed it would last. Then, it's the bottom of the hour, and I fix my pasta dish, bring it back into the living room, and continue watching. For another thirty minutes.

That night, as my wife is making dinner, I tell her about the priest. The best way I can describe him, I decide, is to compare him to that icon of nerd pop culture machismo, Commander William Riker, of Star Trek, The Next Generation. Picard's Number One. After this vivid description, which fails to convey any sense of belief to my wife, I conclude with, "He was a rake!"

Her eyes open wide in confusion. "A rake?" She must be thinking about gardening tools.

"Yeah. You know, a wag."

"A wag?"

"Yeah, a wag. Short for scallywag."

"Scallywag???" She takes a step back in mock distress, and asks, incredulously:

"What century are you from?"