That’s what Ann Althouse says, and I would agree. We shouldn’t be mourning his passing, which was as he wanted it–we should be celebrating his life. And as at a wake, (though it’s not, as far as I know, actually true) I have to tell a story about him that Tom Rogers, former president of the Space Transportation Association, used to tell.

It seems that often, the pontiff, weary with the cares of the world, would have trouble getting to sleep. On these occasions, one of the best cures for his insomnia was to take a ride around the beautiful city in which he lived, in the back seat of his limousine. On one of these occasions, he realizes that he’s been missing something from his life for many years.

He taps on the window to his driver, and says, “Mario, I haven’t driven a car since I was a priest in Cracow. It would give me so much pleasure if I could do it once again.”

Mario, of course, is aghast. “Your Holiness, it would be unseemly! You are the Pope!” To which the reply was, “That’s right, Mario, I am the Pope. You are the employee of the Pope. I shall drive.”

So they switch places, Mario with reluctance and the Pope with glee, and they head off for the driving tour of his life, past the Tivoli Fountains and the Coliseum, up and down the hills. Fortunately, it’s late at night, so traffic is light, and like most Romans, he pays little attention to traffic signals or speed limits. Inevitably, the sound of a siren greets their ears from behind, and so the Pope reluctantly pulls over, fearing the headlines the next day.

The patrolman gets off his scooter, walks up to the limo, taps on the smoked-glass driver’s window, and his face turns sheet white when it rolls down to reveal who is behind the wheel. He stammers, “A thousand pardons, your Holiness. I’m so sorry to inconvenience you. But can you please wait for just one minute while I contact my superiors”? And the pope nods beatifically.

He goes back to his scooter, radios the station, and says, “Capitano, I need some advice. I’m about to give a traffic ticket to a very, very important person.”

The radio crackles back, “What’s the problem, Luigi? Who is it? How important are we talking here?”

“I don’t know, Capitano, but whoever it is, has got the Pope for a chauffeur…”

That’s what Ann Althouse says, and I would agree. We shouldn’t be mourning his passing, which was as he wanted it–we should be celebrating his life. And as at a wake, (though it’s not, as far as I know, actually true) I have to tell a story about him that Tom Rogers, former president of the Space Transportation Association, used to tell.

It seems that often, the pontiff, weary with the cares of the world, would have trouble getting to sleep. On these occasions, one of the best cures for his insomnia was to take a ride around the beautiful city in which he lived, in the back seat of his limousine. On one of these occasions, he realizes that he’s been missing something from his life for many years.

He taps on the window to his driver, and says, “Mario, I haven’t driven a car since I was a priest in Cracow. It would give me so much pleasure if I could do it once again.”

Mario, of course, is aghast. “Your Holiness, it would be unseemly! You are the Pope!” To which the reply was, “That’s right, Mario, I am the Pope. You are the employee of the Pope. I shall drive.”

So they switch places, Mario with reluctance and the Pope with glee, and they head off for the driving tour of his life, past the Tivoli Fountains and the Coliseum, up and down the hills. Fortunately, it’s late at night, so traffic is light, and like most Romans, he pays little attention to traffic signals or speed limits. Inevitably, the sound of a siren greets their ears from behind, and so the Pope reluctantly pulls over, fearing the headlines the next day.

The patrolman gets off his scooter, walks up to the limo, taps on the smoked-glass driver’s window, and his face turns sheet white when it rolls down to reveal who is behind the wheel. He stammers, “A thousand pardons, your Holiness. I’m so sorry to inconvenience you. But can you please wait for just one minute while I contact my superiors”? And the pope nods beatifically.

He goes back to his scooter, radios the station, and says, “Capitano, I need some advice. I’m about to give a traffic ticket to a very, very important person.”

The radio crackles back, “What’s the problem, Luigi? Who is it? How important are we talking here?”

“I don’t know, Capitano, but whoever it is, has got the Pope for a chauffeur…”

That’s what Ann Althouse says, and I would agree. We shouldn’t be mourning his passing, which was as he wanted it–we should be celebrating his life. And as at a wake, (though it’s not, as far as I know, actually true) I have to tell a story about him that Tom Rogers, former president of the Space Transportation Association, used to tell.

It seems that often, the pontiff, weary with the cares of the world, would have trouble getting to sleep. On these occasions, one of the best cures for his insomnia was to take a ride around the beautiful city in which he lived, in the back seat of his limousine. On one of these occasions, he realizes that he’s been missing something from his life for many years.

He taps on the window to his driver, and says, “Mario, I haven’t driven a car since I was a priest in Cracow. It would give me so much pleasure if I could do it once again.”

Mario, of course, is aghast. “Your Holiness, it would be unseemly! You are the Pope!” To which the reply was, “That’s right, Mario, I am the Pope. You are the employee of the Pope. I shall drive.”

So they switch places, Mario with reluctance and the Pope with glee, and they head off for the driving tour of his life, past the Tivoli Fountains and the Coliseum, up and down the hills. Fortunately, it’s late at night, so traffic is light, and like most Romans, he pays little attention to traffic signals or speed limits. Inevitably, the sound of a siren greets their ears from behind, and so the Pope reluctantly pulls over, fearing the headlines the next day.

The patrolman gets off his scooter, walks up to the limo, taps on the smoked-glass driver’s window, and his face turns sheet white when it rolls down to reveal who is behind the wheel. He stammers, “A thousand pardons, your Holiness. I’m so sorry to inconvenience you. But can you please wait for just one minute while I contact my superiors”? And the pope nods beatifically.

He goes back to his scooter, radios the station, and says, “Capitano, I need some advice. I’m about to give a traffic ticket to a very, very important person.”

The radio crackles back, “What’s the problem, Luigi? Who is it? How important are we talking here?”

“I don’t know, Capitano, but whoever it is, has got the Pope for a chauffeur…”

Well, I was a little premature yesterday, but it seems to be official now. The College of the Cardinals will be selecting a new pope in a couple weeks. I wonder if there will be white smoke for a black pope? More on that later…

Apparently, Pope John Paul II is dead.

Not being Catholic, or even a theist, I’m not big on popes, and I disagreed with him on many issues, but like Ronald Reagan, who died almost a year ago, he was one of the great men of the latter half of the twentieth century. He, like Reagan and Margaret Thatcher, and to an only slightly lesser degree, people such as Lech Walensa and Vaclav Havel, was not willing to merely “contain” a brutal totalitarian empire, but was determined to stand up to it and end it. Along with them, he succeeded, and for that act alone he will go down in history as one of the greatest men to wear the shoes of the fisherman.

It will be difficult for the church to find his like as a replacement.

It was one of the wettest winters on record in southern California this year, and having moved to Florida last fall (just in time to be hit by two hurricanes), I missed it. All the rain has apparently made for a fantastic bloom of wildflowers there, particularly up in the Golden Poppy Reserve in the hills west of the Antelope Valley. Transterrestrial web designer Bill Simon took a trip up there this weekend, and this is a sample of what he shot.

I liked this one, too:

The rest of the images can be found here.

Can there be a jot without a tittle?

American Express has an insecure login. When you enter the URL http://www.americanexpress.com (a natural enough place to go take care of your accounts, and the address that comes on the bill), you’re redirected to this page. Note that it’s an “http” site, not an “https.”

You can get a secure login by adding an “s” to the URL and reloading the page, but most people wouldn’t know to do that, and you shouldn’t have to. There’s no link to a secure option, and they shouldn’t even allow a non-secured login. This is kind of amazing for a company with the reputation of AmEx.

Walter Cronkite has lost his wife of sixty-five years. That has to be a blow.

I just realized that today’s the Ides of March.

Why yes, yes I am trying to avoid work. Why do you ask?