The Sheriff of Decibels.

I once lived in a high-rise condominium where everyone kept to himself, and all was peachy with the world.  But there was one night when I received a phone call from a neighbor, informing me once again that my television was on “too loud” and he can’t sleep.  I was watching an old movie, as I usually did in the early evenings if I stayed home.  This was a recurring performance on his part, a kind of neighborhood opera in which he played both the aggrieved victim and the self-appointed Sheriff of Decibels.  At that point, I was starting to wonder whether the sound was actually carrying or whether my neighbor simply enjoyed the thrill of a good complaint because the room where my television is did not butt up against his bedroom, but against his butler’s pantry.

Here’s the twist: I could hear his television, too.  Talk shows, game shows, dramatic monologues, the whole cinematic buffet.  And yet I’ve never felt compelled to call him and deliver a noise citation.  I’d assume he was just… living.  Watching things.  Being a person in a building full of other people doing what people do to live.  It’s part of the deal when you choose communal living over a cabin in the woods on ten acres.

Still, every time my phone lit up with his name on the screen, I rolled my eyes.  At that time of evening, it could not be a friendly hello.  It’s always a report, as if he was monitoring my condo with a sound meter and a clipboard.

I played with the idea that conducting an experiment or two.  I thought of turning down the volume to a whisper—barely audible even to me—and wait.  Would my phone ring?  I don’t know, but I was willing to bet a dime to a donut that he was hearing phantom noises, or he had superhuman hearing, or perhaps the echoes of his own television bounced around his condo like a boomerang.

There’s a special kind of fatigue that comes from dealing with neighbors who are both hypersensitive and oblivious to their own habits.  It’s like being scolded by someone about your manners when they are chewing food and smacking loudly with their mouth open.  You want to point it out, but you know it won’t land.

So, I’ve reached a conclusion: either my television had mystical projection abilities, or my neighbor developed a hobby of policing imaginary disturbances.  I continued living my life at a reasonable volume.

And honestly, at that point, the only thing louder than my television was that special kind of comedy.  Personally, I think he had his wig on too tight.

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Offers That I Find Easy to Refuse.

For the past two or three years, my phone has been ringing with a very specific kind of enthusiasm.  Several times a day — three, sometimes five times — I receive calls and texts asking if I’m “ready to sell my property at_____.”  It’s a property I do not own, nor ever owned.  A property that exists only in the imagination of whoever first decided my number belonged to a motivated seller.

The messages come in waves: cheerful, urgent, persistent.  Some sound like they’re offering me a golden opportunity.  Others read like they’re doing me a favor.  All of them are wrong, and all of them go unanswered and will forever go unanswered.

I’ve learned to recognize the numbers instantly because they are always marked as “spam” calls.  They rotate the numbers, of course—these operations always do—but the tone is always someone who believes they’ve found a lead, when in reality, they’ve found a person who will never respond, never engage, never confirm or deny anything.  Silence is my only contribution to their business model.

I have a suspicion about how my number got into circulation, and woe be unto them for providing my number to evildoers.

It’s a running joke between me and everyone who knows I get those calls: another day, another imaginary property to sell, another hearty laugh.

And still, I never answer.  Not ever.

+click+ +delete+ and laugh.

Simple as that.

 

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The Noise We Mistake for Knowledge.

 

We live in an age where information is abundant, but much of what passes for “news” today is not news at all.  It’s noise, and you know that.  It’s carefully packaged, endlessly repeated, and designed to keep us stupidly watching rather than sensibly thinking.  The problem is not merely the volume of what we consume, but the nature of it because much of what presents itself as “news” is, in truth, non‑news — content engineered to provoke reaction and emotion rather than understanding.  Discernment, then, becomes not a luxury but a moral necessity.  Headlines flash, opinions multiply, and yet very little of it has any bearing on our actual lives.  The result is a subtle erosion of time, attention, our brain cells, and inner peace, and if we bow down to the mindless blather, we allow others to steal our time.  Yes—steal our time and ultimately shapes our habits.

Non‑news thrives on immediacy.  It demands attention without earning it.  It offers the illusion of being informed while quietly draining the very faculties that make genuine understanding possible.  The result is a culture that is constantly stimulated yet rarely enlightened.  We scroll, we skim, we react, and at the end of it, we are no closer to truth.  The deeper danger of non‑news is not that it wastes minutes but that it shapes habits.  It trains us to expect superficiality, to prefer outrage over reflection, to treat every passing headline as a crisis.  A society that cannot tell the difference between the essential and the irrelevant becomes easy to manipulate and difficult to awaken.

True news informs and clarifies, and it should edify us.  It should help a person understand the world.  But this blather does the opposite: it distracts, inflames, and consumes hours that could have been spent on something productive.  It is astonishing how quickly a day can disappear into commentary, speculation, and manufactured outrage that leaves us no knowledgeable than before.

The danger is not merely wasted time; it’s also wasted focus and a counterfeit form of engagement.  When we allow trivial stories to occupy our minds, we lose the capacity to notice what genuinely matters: the people around us, the responsibilities entrusted to us, the quiet work that builds a meaningful life.  Non‑news thrives on urgency, but it produces nothing lasting.

Discernment asks a different question: Is this worthy of my time, my mind, my peace?  It is a refusal to let trivialities masquerade as significance.  It is the discipline of distinguishing between what is merely loud and what is actually important.  In a culture that profits from distraction, such clarity is countercultural.  Choosing to step away from it is not ignorance; it is discernment.  It is the decision to guard one’s attention as a precious resource rather than surrender it to whatever happens to be fashionably trending.  A person who refuses to be pulled into the churn of non‑news gains something rare in our age: clarity of mind and control of oneself.

When we decline to participate in the churn of non‑news, we reclaim our attention for what is real: the responsibilities before us, the people entrusted to us, the truths that do not change with the news cycle.  We become less reactive and more rooted.  Sure, the world will always offer distractions, but we are not obligated to accept them.  Our time is finite, and our attention is inviolable.  Spending it wisely is an act of both strength and sanity.

 

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The Gentle Art of Wholesome Reading.

There is a particular enjoyment in reading good, wholesome books— a joy that feels almost old‑fashioned in the best possible way.  These are the books that don’t shout for our attention or compete with the noise of the world because they simply open a door and invite us into a place where I can breathe.

Wholesome books remind us that goodness is not naïve, that beauty is not fragile, good language is a delight, and that truth can be spoken without cynicism.  They offer characters who struggle honestly, worlds that lift rather than darken, and stories that leave us a little more human than they found us.  In a culture that often rewards vulgarity, shock, and spectacle, these books feel like a quiet rebellion.

There is also a deep restfulness in them. When we read something good and clean and true, our minds unclench.  We remember that gentleness is not weakness and that hope is not foolish.  Even a simple story told with sincerity can become a small refuge.

And perhaps that is the greatest joy of wholesome reading: it forms us.  It shapes our imagination toward the good.  It teaches us to look for light, even in ordinary places.  It reminds us that the world is still full of things worth loving.

A good book doesn’t just entertain; it nourishes us, and in a time when so much reading leaves us scattered or weary, finding a book that restores us is its own quiet ways.

So far this year, I have read the following good books.  They are in the order of publication year.

Seeking the Heart of Christ by Saint Claude La Colombière (1680)

Ole Mammy’s Torment by Anne Fellows Johnston (1897)

Light and Peace: Instructions for Devout Souls to Dispel Their Doubts and Allay Their Fears by Carlo Guiseppi Quadrupani (1980)

The Wisdom of Fulton Sheen: 365 Days of Inspiration (2020)

 

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Finding Grace and Renewal.

Remember thou art dust,

And unto dust thou shalt return.

As you receive your ashes this year, pause for a moment. Let that simple cross traced upon your forehead remind you that our days are fleeting, yet the mercy of God endures forever.  These ashes echo the ancient words of Scripture—“Remember that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return”—not to burden us with fear, but to awaken us to grace.

This Lent, may the ashes draw you away from despair and toward the hope promised in Christ; away from shame and into the healing tenderness of His forgiveness; away from mere reflection and into true conversion of heart.

For the ashes matter not for what they are, but for what they call us to become: sons and daughters who walk in humility, disciples who practice mercy, and souls renewed in the love of the Crucified and Risen Lord.

I will be posting my essays throughout Lent; most of them are pre-written so that I can concentrate on this holy season.

 

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The Decline of Language Originality.

Have you noticed that our language has gone stale?  Once vibrant words and phrases have been replaced by a handful of recycled expressions that people toss around as if cheap confetti.  We’ve become a culture of verbal shortcuts—catchphrases, memes, and pre-chewed reactions—leaving very little room for originality, nuance, or even basic thought.

So perhaps it’s time to retire a few of these linguistic relics and replace them with something more intelligent, more intentional, and frankly, more dignified.

Take cringe, for example.  This single word now is deployed as a universal dismissal, a way to avoid forming an actual opinion.  Instead of describing what makes us uncomfortable or why, we simply slap the “cringe” label on it and move on.  It’s the conversational equivalent of shrugging.

Then there’s the ever popular “What! What?”  That’s a phrase that pretends to express astonishment but usually signals nothing more than performative confusion.  It’s noise masquerading as reaction.

And of course, the internet’s favorite template:  Tell me you’re ____ without telling me you’re ____.  Perhaps it was a clever structure the first time it appeared, perhaps even the second time.  But now it’s a tired formula, a linguistic Mad Libs game that saves us from the burden of crafting an original thought.

“How cool is that?” has also run its course.  It’s a placeholder, a filler, a way to feign enthusiasm without committing to any real sentiment.  It’s a way for the older generation to be hip with the kids.  It’s the verbal equivalent of nodding politely while thinking about something else.

“The fourth be with you”—a absurd pun that has lived far, far beyond its natural lifespan and continues to resurface every May, as if repetition alone could make it clever again.

And finally, there’s IYKYK (“if you know, you know”).  Here’s a phrase that pretends to signal insider knowledge but usually functions as a way to avoid explaining anything.  It’s exclusivity without substance.

Here’s a list of my suggestions of clichés and phrases we need to retire post haste:

Glow Up

Gaslight

Today years old.

Narcissist / Narcissism

Tell me you’re ____ without telling me you’re ____.

Chilling (as in, “chilling details,” “chilling video,” et cetera)

W’s (or anything using “W” for the word “win.”)

May the fourth be with you.

Awesome / Amazing

Asking for a friend.

You (We) got this!

How cool is that?

Game changer

Wait!  What?

IYKYK

Literally

Cringe

Iconic

The “F” word

These expressions are simply worn out, dehydrated by overuse, leaving behind only the dry husk of what once felt fresh.  Language deserves better, and so do we.  Thoughtful speech invites thoughtful living.  When we choose words with care, we sharpen our minds, deepen our conversations, and reclaim a bit of originality in a world that keeps trying to flatten everything into sameness.

If we want richer conversations, we must start by choosing richer language.  Retiring these worn-out phrases isn’t about being pretentious; it’s about making room for clarity and genuine expression.  In a culture that thrives on shortcuts, choosing real words might just be the most radical act of all.

 

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The Stankles.

I live in a large mid‑rise building, the kind with long hallways, welcoming vestibules, perpetually humming vents, and a cast of neighbors who could each anchor their own documentary.  Life at the Sage Pointe Condominiums is never dull, especially if you have a sensitive nose.  In today’s essay, I’d like to introduce you to one of our more… aromatic residents.  I have lived in buildings that have friendly doormen or fresh flowers in the lobby, and a dedicated cleaning crew that cleaned and deodorized a couple times a week.  Here, at Sage Pointe Condominiums we have odors—layered and evolving.

Whenever I open my front door or step off the elevator, I brace myself.  I never know what invisible cloud will greet me, or what new olfactory assault will come barreling toward my unsuspecting nose.

The most infamous contributors are Adonis and his family, whom I privately refer to as The Stankles.  If it were scientifically possible for a scent to take physical form, they would travel through life surrounded by a perpetual soft green fog—something between a cartoonish stink cloud and a government chemical weapons test.  Each member of the family seems to believe that the only way to apply cologne is to marinate in it.  Not spritz.  Not dab.  Marinate.

When that throat‑tightening, eye‑watering haze slaps me across the face, I know exactly what it means: The Stankles have either left for work and school or have triumphantly returned.  They live on the opposite end of the hallway from me, which makes the reach of their fumes all the more impressive.  For the stench to drift all the way to my wing, it must be clinging to them like a second skin, and through all seven layers, too.

I imagine inside their condominium.  In my mind, a greenish mist hangs in the air like a permanently stagnant weather system.  The scent must ripen throughout the week, as it settles into the carpet, the curtains, the couch cushions, the walls; every surface absorbing a different note from each family member’s chosen fragrance.  One of them prefers something sharp and citrusy, another something musky and sweet, another something like patchouli mixed with body odor, and yet another something that smells like a gas station bathroom trying its best.  The combination must be… unique.

The elevator, of course, is its own adventure.  It faithfully records the comings and goings of the building’s most pungent citizens.  Step inside, and you can tell instantly whether The Stankles have recently passed through.  But they’re not the only ones who leave their mark.

There’s The Princess, whose perfume is so distinctive it might as well be trademarked.  She rocks through the building with her dogs like a scented comet, leaving behind a shimmering trail of powdery, floral, and a slightly sweaty body odor insistence.  And then there’s the unmistakable contribution of The Weede Family, whose fusty skunk aroma drifts through the vents with the determination of a creature lazily seeking freedom.

Their stories and their scents deserve essays of their own.  And believe me, I’ll get to them in future essays.  Life at the Sage Pointe Condominiums provides no shortage of material.  For now, consider this your first whiff of the cast of characters who make my building unforgettable in ways I never asked for.

 

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