As I write this (on the East Coast of the US), it is less than four hours from the first Friday the 13th of 2006.

For people who suffer from paraskevidekatriaphobia, the dawn will break on what is one of the scarriest days of the year for them. Some will actually stay home from work. Others will go out and try to function, but feel a sense of forboding until midnight that night.
There's also a full moon.

Many of us know about the term triskaidekaphobia; often trying to use it in conversation. It means a morbid and irrational fear of the number 13. Paraskevidekatriaphobics, however, don't just stop there. They are much more specific, being morbidly afraid of Friday the 13th.
Trying to find a reason for irrational fear is always a bit tricky, and while explaining a fear of the number 13 is easy, how does one become afraid of Friday?

Americans LOVE Friday!
Even NON-Americans LOVE Friday!

The "F" in T. G. I. F. doesn't stand for "Funnel-cake", you know, (except in some Amish communities and among Midwest carnival workers).
Friday, for many of us, means the last day of the work week, payday or just a chance to stay out late and sleep in the next day.
Yet, for some of our more "fundamentalist" brothers and sisters, Friday always seemed to be the day the excrement collided with the ancient air cooling device in Biblical times.
Historians have no trouble believing Christ was crucified on a Friday, as they know that was the custom in Roman occupied Palestine of the First Century. (Someday I will have to try and figure out how He rose again "on the third day", with Sunday being only two days later... but I digress...)
Some Bible Scholars and Bible Aficionados also say Friday was the day of; the destruction of Solomon's Temple, the Great Flood (featuring Noah and his floating zoo), the tongue-tying of the builders of the Tower of Babel and Adam and Eve's eviction from Eden.
For our Bible friends, Friday verrily sucketh!
As for the number 13, we need only make a quick trip back to the Bible and count the names on the guest list at the Last Supper. To this day, it is not uncommon in France for party planners to hire a "Quatorzieme" or 14th guest at the last minute, just to be "safe". FDR's secretary, Grace Tully, said that President Roosevelt was so superstitious about the number 13, that she would often be asked to attend a working lunch or state dinner if the guest list hit that magic number.
Anyone who's seen the Tom Hanks movie knows what happened to Apollo 13. What they may not know is that it was launched at 1:13pm, or 13:13 military time.
Some say this aversion to the number 13 may be more political, being a remnant from a shift in history.
There are 13 moon phases of 28 days each, coming out to 364 days in a Lunar Year. This would be easily enough to remember in a society run by women. Since ancient times, it was how civilized matriarchal societies marked the passage of time. It isn't too surprising that when male dominated societies emerged, they began using 12 months in a solar cycle of 365 days. Eventually, the number 13 was prohibited and denegrated.
So the reasons behind the fear of Friday the 13th seem to be based on deep seated cultural myths and bias.

But, let's not forget the truely weird.

Charles Manson, Theodore Bundy, Albert DeSalvo (AKA the Boston Strangler), Jeffrey Dahmer and Jack the Ripper all have thirteen letters in their names (although I'm not entirely sure Mr. & Mrs. Ripper thought "the" was a proper middle name for their son Jack.)
Go ahead, count them...I'll wait.
Actually, as I think of it, my real name (counting the middle initial) also has thirteen letters in it...

So have a happy Friday the 13th...and don't be TOO afraid...

Now where did I put that hockey mask...

I have no doubt I would be a far different person today, if I had not spent the first six years of my academic life in Catholic School.
While it wasn't exactly the "mean streets" of Philly, Bucks County's Nativity School was still in the Philadelphia Archdioces, and there were still enough traditional Nuns of the Sisters of St. Joseph Order to keep us in line.
At the time, I didn't realize how much I was learning from them.
I could read at an 8th grade level by the end of first grade, learned how to diagram sentences in the second grade, and was doing basic geometry in the third. The Nuns didn't much care for the "new math" then in vogue, because it probably didn't demand enough memorization.
We memorized all kinds of crazy stuff back then; the times tables, all the prepositions in the English language, the presidents (in order) from Washington to Kennedy (one of "our own", don't you know?), various poems and the entire Baltimore Catechism.
I also made observations and learned lessons that wouldn't "click in" until later.
I noticed that some kids were always in trouble, often just because of the way they looked.
I, on the other hand, had the stereotypical Irish look of bright red hair and freckles that, I now realize, caused the Irish Nuns to cut me some slack. My friend Bernie O'Leary could have pulled it off, but he was born a blonde. My other friend, Tony Romano, didn't stand a chance. Ditto Billy Ciroletti.
Only once did I get the traditional slap to the back of the head.
You have to understand that part of a Nun's standard equipment in those days, along with the black habit, was a set of wooden rosary beads attached to a belt on the waist. This gave a unique element to the sound of a walking nun, and fair warning if you were goofing off in church (where the acoustics were always the best).
Somehow, I acquired a set of my own wooden rosary beads, and was taking great pleasure in walking up behind unsuspecting friends and shaking the beads. The unmistakable "clicka-clicka" sound would make most of the kids freeze instantly, and send some into convulsions of fear.
The last time I pulled this little stunt, I heard the "Clicka-clicka" sound even after I had finished...it was coming from behind me.
After the THWACK! and a cry of "you are a BOLD ARTICLE, Master Gobshite!", I spent the next 4 hours learning the proper way to use Rosary Beads.
For a third grader, four hours of reciting repetitive prayers can seem like a lifetime.
I learned that in the most homoginized society, humans will still find the differences among themselves. Witness the "troubles" in Northern Ireland, where both sides had people who look alot like I do.
Back at Nativity, we young men all wore white shirts and dark green ties, along with dark pants and brightly shined shoes.
Girls wore dark green jumpers over pastel green blouses and white knee socks. Their shoes did not have to be shined.
Yet, even among the sameness, we found little ways to discriminate.
Some kids'shirts had those odd little loops in the back...some had button down collars, or some were simply made of better material. I always tied my own tie, while some other kids had clip-ons. I remember one kid whose tie was on some elastic that went around his collar. We could pull it down, and it would snap back and hit him in the nose. While we were all Catholics, I remember one kid had a harder time of it when we found out he was Greek Orthodox! This, of course, was still better than being a "Publick"--our term for the kids who went to the Public School up the street.
We enjoyed our reputation as being the "tough kids" after school hours.
Looking back over the years, I realize that I really liked being in Catholic School. To this day, I remember feeling that God himself was always around, but rarely was He mentioned. There was a place for God, and (as Damenrouge reminds me) it was at the Mass held on the First Friday of the month.
That was the focal point...but not the only point.
We would line up according to height. Short kids, like Billy Dayton or Joey Gorman, would be in front. The really tall kids like Johnny Watson and Bobby Lohman always brought up the end of the line.
I was somewhere in the middle.
While there was alot of sit-stand-kneel-sit-stand-kneel, what I really enjoyed was the music.
That was, until 300 elementary aged students sang "ave, ave, ave Ma-RE-E-E-E-E-ah". That note, in the middle of Her name, was high enough to make my ears hurt and make local dogs howl.
For the most part though, God was "around", and as a kid in Catholic School, I was very much aware of His presence. We didn't have to conjure Him up; He just was. To question God's existence was to question the existence of air... you couldn't see either one, but you knew damn well that if either, or both, dissappeared, you would probably notice.
Yet, I never worried about that happening.
It's been over 40 years, and I still don't.
I guess I just dislike people telling me how to breathe...unless I ask them to.

*****

By the way, Damenrouge...speaking of breathing, and annoying door to door preachers, I always keep a stick or two of incense by the door...I light it, open the door and exhale loudly the sound of "OM-M-M-M-M-M-M-M-M"...like a derranged Justin Hayward,
and I don't even have to be naked!
I'll bet if I was, they'd leave skid marks.

After another busy day of Civil Servicing (give away free stuff, and they'll beat a path to your door...and then form a line running out the door and into the parking lot.), I get home with the mid-week Blahs.
I think that's somewhere between the Monday Blues and the Friday Hurrahs(!)
I crack open a Sam Adams, stick some of last night's dinner in the microwave (chicken and mushrooms in a red wine sauce with taragon, over basmati rice), and quietly walk into the "media room", to check the blog.
My media room is a converted bedroom where I keep the computer and a non working stereo system. Over the computer are three identical clocks, set to Pacific time, Eastern Time and GMT. The walls are covered in maps.
Like most (if not all) of us, I check my latest entry and the comments you have made. That never fails to bring a smile.
Next, I check my favorites.
My buddy Mokie Joe is talking about "The Meaning of Life".
Unless he's quoting Monty Python, I think it may take at least another Sam Adams to delve into this post.
The Caravan of Enlightenment looks interesting. Finally, somebody is going to explain what a MEME is. Talk about things you are "afraid to ask about".
Finally, I turn to my new friend Damenrouge, and there it is;

"I am speaking to you Gobshite, as we both are good (well maybe not always good) but Irish Catholics."

Hmm...just as I'm trying to figure out what to do next, the microwave starts beeping...
So, it's dinner first...then a trip back to the past.
A land of little kids in white shirts and green ties...this may take some thinking, a Guess Who album (played loud)...and maybe just one more Sam Adams.

It was just after 11 tonight, when I threw my '97 black Miata into a hard right turn and power shifted onto the six lanes of State Road 436. The temperature was in the low 50's, but still I had the top down. I look for every chance I can get to "ride the wind" and didn't really feel the cold, thanks to a worn brown leather jacket. I've had the jacket for as many years as I've had the Miata, and both are just getting broken in.
The air noise made me crank up the radio.
As I was about to slip in a cassette of a favorite Springsteen album, I heard Molly Hatchet on local rock station WHTQ. They were kicking out Gator Country. It seemed appropriate, so I turned up the volume a little bit more.
Just as Danny Joe Brown did his patented long growl, I dropped the speed, down shifted, and rolled into property owned by the U.S. Government. I figured I was on some sort of surveillance system from that moment on...but stamps had gone up to 39 cents, and I had bills to pay!

Ok, so I went to the Post Office tonight; but everything happened just the way I described it.
The point I'm trying to make is to see if we can't find a way to turn normal routine into an adventure.
Like alot of people, I always get hit (blind-sided might be a better term) with the "post-holiday blues".
In the last few years, I haven't even decorated my house, because taking down the decorations has proven to be so depressing.
On the other hand, I've discovered a variation of the traditional New Year's Resolution seems to have done me a world of good.
Instead of the usual resolutions people try, I have simply resolved to do something this year that I can look back on in 2007 with a sense of wonder.
I will try to have an adventure or two.
If you think that seems a bit odd, let me remind you that you are now blogging...something you may not have even thought of doing in January of 2005. Not only have many of you revealed things I couldn't imagine revealing (I'm not THAT adventurous!), but you have made yourselves better writers in the process.
You may also have made some new friends.
So for the next few weeks, try and push the envelope just a little. Stay up later than you should (Lord knows I am, if you check the time stamp on this post)...go to work a different way, or get a new job. Resolve to go someplace where you normally wouldn't go. Meet people you normally wouldn't meet.
Question what you consider to be normal.
Just try and make 2006 one of those years in your life, that you look back on fondly for the rest of your life.
Maybe buy a second-hand Miata.

Just a quick follow up to the previous post, as I think it illustrates both how Blogstream works, and how Yahoo thinks.
First, I seem to have innocently developed an interesting dialogue between The Vessel and my friend Mokie Joe...both seem to be in possession of first rate minds, and I would recommend you add each to your favorites list.
If you look at the top of the post, you will see Yahoo is offering you a chance to own everything George Carlin has ever written...although when I checked later, I noticed I suddenly had the chance to buy Kabalistic jewelry (?). Actually, I prefer to check out the jewelry offered by this guy because of his live Dublin WebCam, and because I'm a sucker for the Claddagh symbol.
Surprisingly, the comments have all been very civil.
I was really expecting some flak* from Blogstreamers who thought their God needed defending from the likes of me.
But, no...every comment was thoughtful and well constructed.
I especially liked the comment from Whit's Whittlings...he (or she) is one good writer. I noticed the site, and had added it to my favorites earlier.
So, thanks again, Blogstreamers...you can credit yourselves with being part of a thoughtful, intelligent and well mannered community.

*FLAK is short for the German "FLiegerAbwehrKanonen"...all one word meaning anti-aircraft gun. I've often said German was a language best suited for Goethe poems or Punk Rock lyrics.

später.