I know one of the great social movements of our time is a return to orthodoxy in all religions, but you’ll not catch me on that train. I’m enjoying the great cafeteria of secularism and pick-and-choose religious entrees too much.

Also, I mix my metaphors into a great big melting pot. What-evuh.

Anyway, last Friday was the memorial …I guess service isn’t quite the correct word. OK, memorial party for my old neighbor Chuck, who died last month. It was a blast, I must say, and if my own memorial has half as interesting a guest list, generates one-third as many funny stories and has food even a quarter as good, I’ll consider it a life well-lived.

In the middle of it all a half-dozen Buddhist monks showed up and chanted. I missed the beginning, but someone said it was one of those send-your-soul-to-the-afterlife chants, and I loved it — so strange and hypnotic. To my knowledge Chuck wasn’t a Buddhist, but in the photo collage in the dining room was a shot of him posing with a bunch of monks, so they must have had some sort of connection. As a rule I’m not much for new-age religion, and I think Madonna and her kabbalah is just silly. But I’m grateful I’ve reached a point in my life where monks and I appear on the same guest lists.

I just read a story about elections in the Missouri Synod of the Lutheran Church; apparently they’ve been squabbling amongst themselves, ever since a post-9/11 prayer service in which one of their clergyman participated in an ecumenical prayer service with non-Christians. This is a violation of their doctrine, and the synod leader’s failure to suspend the offending minister is cause of great offense among more conservative members.

To which I can only say: Sheesh. Chant on, monks.

Saturday: Fabulous fellow Fellow Fatih came up to the lake with his preggo wife Idil for one last lazy afternoon before their yankee doodle dandy shows up later this month. We drank wine and did the usual lakey things, including ice cream with raspberries from our very own bushes. Isn’t summer wonderful?