God's House

I have a vivid memory of my hungover mother's voice demanding I get up and get ready for church. The Catholic Church frowns on denim and leaves the wearing of such heathen garb to inmates and atheists. That day Mom forced us to dress in our Sunday best. But it doesn't matter how nice the ribbon looks on a bowl of rotten fruit, it still stinks. Mom spent the entire hour of church refereeing our abominable behavior. She had to separate Kev and I, putting me near Jess, which wasn't any better. With no one to pester, Kev fell asleep, prompting mom to nudge him like a NHL player nudges an opponent.

During communion, just as she thought we settled down, I'd leaned over and asked, "Hey Mom, am I supposed to chew the cookie?"

To which she yelled, "It's not a god damn cookie."

After taking the Lord's name in vain, she ushered us out, screaming at us the whole ride home. We spent the remainder of Sunday morning in lock down. Kev escaped out his window, Jess nodded off, and I snuck down to watch the faithful sin box.

No institution has garnered more bad press recently than the Catholic Church.  The child abuse scandal of the last decade has publicized the secrecy and deception within the Church, tools the Catholic theocracy uses to conceal its shameful behavior.  Though the child abuse is responsible for enormous damage, the decline of the Church began long before this outrage.  The true failing of the Church lies in its refusal, or perhaps even inability, to evolve.  Like all living, breathing entities, it must adapt or die.  Some changes call for major revisions of doctrine.  Maybe priests should be allowed to marry, or women should be allowed entry to the priesthood, or gays, well, maybe gays should be allowed something, anything at all.  Even barring these major changes, the Church has not evolved in small ways--like a meaningful service or sermon, Sunday school for children, music that evokes emotion, liveliness, spirit...  Consequently, followers of this rigid faith are finding comfort, love, joy, community, and God in other places.

So, the stage was ripe for churches like The Vineyard to sprout with a new attitude, call it "no pressure sales."  Rachel and I went to The Vineyard this morning for Sunday service. We were greeted at the door with smiles, no wait, with ear to ear grins.  A friendly man interrupted us as we looked in awe at a sign that read, "Food and Drink Welcome. Lids are Appreciated." Wait, coffee in church?  In fact, free coffee and bagels were served in the cafe in the next room. Wait, a cafe in the next room?  Friendly, welcoming people, too? 

There was no ornate altar, just an unassuming stage with instruments. We were guided to padded, comfortable chairs. There were no petrified pews, no stuffy old fart priests, standing high above us in a pulpit condemning us unless we contributed 15% of our gross, not net, to the church.

Rachel and I sipped our delicious (french press) coffee while listening to the pastor, who sat gingerly behind an electric piano, asking us to open our hearts, and join him in praising the Lord. He burst into song, accompanied by guitar, bass, and soaring voices.  It might have been the most exhilarating experience I've ever encountered. Until the sermon...

Pastor Dave spoke of our expectations of love, how we assume love to be romantic, that love is more than that, and that in a nutshell, God loves us. Granted, he was funny, completely unlike any sermon I'd ever heard, but it smacked of the same old, repackaged homily.

Yet the parishioners and Pastor Dave exude peace. It's hard to picture them depressed, and if they ever are, they turn to God. Later this afternoon, riding bikes down Memorial Drive, I felt Him. He may not have been there at that moment, but He's been there.

God has to be the largest real estate owner in the universe. He has a house in every town, every city, in multiple zip codes, often on the same street, so we'll continue our search for Him. We're just not sure which house He's staying in at the moment, but we're hopeful just the same. 

Insanity Defined

Let's celebrate the individual who first looked at a plant and reasoned that it could be cultivated, then transformed into the fine white powder so sought after today. It takes ingenuity to look at vegetation and see a multi billion dollar industry. I wonder if she knew... Could she even have fathomed the power of that funny white powder?

Some believe it to be highly addictive while others claim the rush is psychological. When it hits my blood stream, I feel it instantly, and my heart races. What some call euphoria, I call elation. If you're not careful, you'll fall into a full fledged habit, using just to keep the edge off. In large doses it causes anxiety. Beware of the crash that leaves many listless, tired, and horribly depressed.

I use daily and can't stop. What's worse, I don't want to. I rapaciously crave it every minute.

Despite ample warnings of the dangers, it still permeates most every facet of my life. You won't find anyone that hasn't been affected, some with devastating consequences. You see it on the subway, droopy eyed sloths, just awaiting their next fix, and they'll get it because it's that easy to find...

I know the first step is to recognize I have a problem. OK. I am sugar's bitch...

Dad Vs. Walt

What attracts me to shows like Breaking Bad? Rachel asks constantly about my infatuation with characters who tread the line between savior and wretch. I argue that it's the superb writing, or the depth of character that ensnares me, but it's more...

Following a diagnosis of advanced lung cancer, Walt starts a meth lab to stockpile cash for his family before he dies. What ensues is an exploration of a man who reaps all the rewards crime has to offer, without the consequence. It's the consequences that make the show so compelling.

I watch the show, and others like it, with a unique eye. I've been there. From this perspective, the show rings true. The writers must be ex-drug dealers to write with such realism.

I can write this, I tell myself.  

Where would I start? From experience. A show about a father and two sons robbing jewelry stores might make compelling television. Walt is desperate. Dad wasn't. Walt is virtuous and tainted by the trade. We were just tainted. Walt does what he does for his family, feels regret, and knows what he's doing is wrong. Dad would do it again. 

I watch Walt in hopes of understanding Dad. At sentencing, the judge said: This concludes a bizarre series of crimes that I am still unable to fully understand. It is really quite extraordinary, and very, very sad. How as a father you could have involved your sons in this is beyond my capacity as a father to comprehend. But we all have choices in this world. And you are going to live with yours for a long time. I wonder if my father thinks about his legacy and what he'll leave behind. A treasure map? Maybe I can write the next Indiana Jones.

Maybe the writers of Breaking Bad can weave some sympathy into Dad. It might take an overhaul, a sex change, and fifty one flashbacks to get there, but I'm willing to bend if they are.  

OCD

I can't leave the volume on a prime number and hate it when clients stop on prime numbered reps.

The shiny things I own must be constantly polished. Fingerprints and blemishs give rise to chaos. Peace  is only achieved with a fine, microfiber cloth. Anything even suspected of coarseness will be discarded.

All doors must be locked before bed. They must be checked and re-checked. Sleep cannot be achieved until a locked state is confirmed.

Dirt...enough said.

Side note: anyone can clean dirt. Visible dirt is three levels beyond dirty. Even unseen dirt is an affront and must be dealt with abrasively.

Dust effects the speed of technology, therefore, cable boxes, The WII, my computer, and cell phone must be free and clear of dust at all times.

Under no circumstances should one willingly go to where bugs congregate. To enter the realm of bugs invites malaria, West Nile, or at the very least, nasty welts. Heed my warning: Bugs will contribute to our downfall.

I almost died once, the day Rachel licked the Rolex. It was cleaned within seconds of the violation, then discussed at length.

"You must never lick the Rolex."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Have we met?"

"That stupid thing.  I can't even hold your hand on that side for fear I'll rub up against it!"

"Right.  Because then you smudge-y it."

"Mmm-Hmm."

But I have vine ripened and relaxed somewhat with age. No, Rachel never treats the Rolex like a lolli, but neither do I insist we spend Saturdays cleaning the entire apartment. (Now I just do it when she's not looking).

HX

Jurell is one of my maintenance staff at the Gold’s Gym in manage in Saugus, and yes, I hired him because he was named after Superman’s father. He’s twenty and reminds me of me at that age; all machismo, hoisting weights he has no business lifting in an attempt to put on the size that’s never coming. He works hard with supervision but if I get let my mind wander I’ll find him in the men’s locker room, reading the paper. Stuck one Friday night for desk staff, I ask him if he’s willing to help out.

During the shift, I ask him to retrieve a bag from a young woman who brought it up to the women’s only section. When he comes back he places the bag under the desk and says, “That girl wants me.”

“Really?” I chuckle.

“No doubt in my mind.” He answers.

“How can you tell?” I ask.

“Oh, I know,” he says, grinning.

“So, ask her out.”

“You think I should?” he blushes.

“Totally.”

“Isn’t there some rule against dating the members?”

“Only if you’re a chicken shit,” I goad.

“I’m no chicken shit, I just don’t want to harass her,” he says innocently.

“Tell you what, I’ll bet you ten bucks I can get a date with her first.”

“No offense, but aren’t you a little old for her?”

“I got ten bucks right here, just burning a hole in my pocket, you in?” I felt two ways, if Jurell won, I could stop liking her, and if I won, I won.

Jurell snatched up the ten and ran off to ask her. When he returned he handed over the ten, “She said no?” I asked.

“Nah, I’m just not ready. But I will, tomorrow.”

I folded the ten neatly and walked away, toward the women’s only but she wasn’t there. Perched above the gym, I spotted her on a stair climber, on the main deck. I tried to make it look like I just happened upon her. Forgetting every smooth line I’ve ever heard, I simply say hi.

“Hey there,” she answers.

“You just joined, right?”

“Sure did. Have we met? I have to admit, when I joined I just finished my fourth third-shift in a row so I was a little out of it.” She has long dark hair that falls in waves over her shoulders. I almost beg her not to tie it back but think better of it.

“No, I’m Bryan, the general manager.”

“I’m Rachel,” she says.

She’s wearing a tank top with thin spaghetti straps, shorts, and two extra elastic ties around her wrist. I can’t help but think of a Porsche when I look her over, marveling at the curves. I climb aboard the machine next to hers and notice Jurell watching from the desk, hoping his fumes don’t set of the fire alarm.

“What do you do?” I ask.

“I’m a nurse,” she answers, toweling off beads of sweat from her forehead.

“Wow, pretty intense.”

“It can be.”

“What kind of nurse?”

“ICU,” she answers.

“Wow, wicked intense.”

She chuckles, “Gotta love that accent.”

“Accent? Oh, yeah, sorry, been here all my life, it kind of stuck,” I say.

“Never lived anywhere else?” she asks.

Try to sound worldly, try to sound worldly, is all I can hear, “Oh, yeah, I lived in New Hampshire for a few years, and Florida.”

“Oh yeah, me too, well, I’m from NH and lived in Sarasota for a few months, hated it though, so I came back here to go to school.” She places her hands on hips that would make a renaissance painter cry. I try not to stare.

“I lived in Clearwater. Nice place to visit but not to live.”

I’m ignorant of any signs or symptoms of boredom. She stops the machine and wipes it down, walking over to a mat to stretch.

“So, what’s your favorite book?” I ask.

“Why, you like to read?” she asks, sounding surprised.

“Love it.”

“What’s your favorite book?” she asks.

“I always loved The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand. It always comes across different every time I read it. I guess maybe because I’m different every time I read it.” I say, garnering the scoff of a few jealous meatheads within earshot.

“Oh my, I love that book. What else?”

I try not to watch her stretch but bask in the fact that she’s paying more attention to it than me, “Loved Sophie’s World.”

She ponders then says, “I think I started that but couldn’t get into it. What was it about?’

“It’s like a crash course in philosophy.” I say.

“Oh yeah, nah, couldn’t do it, too dry for me.”

“What about you?” I ask, trying not to get bagged looking down her shirt.

“I’m a total cheese ball. I read these fantasy books. I’m such a geek, they were by David Eddings, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

“Oh please, I’m the king of cheeseballs.”

There’s a pang of disappointment when she gets up, indicating the stretch is over and her workout complete. “Will I see you tomorrow?” I ask.

“Thursday maybe,” she replies.

Back at the desk, Jurell renews his resolve after we watch her walk out, “When I see her next I’m gonna make my move and spend that ten on her.”

“Really? Want to make it double or nothing?” I ask.

Simultaneous with his agreement to the new terms his jaw drops to the sight of Rachel walking in.

“Hey there, I have a question for you.” She says before I cut her off.

“Let’s go outside.” I say, walking by Jurell, I whisper, “Close your mouth, you’re attracting flies.”

I follow her to her car, parked haphazardly near the dumpsters. “You said you’re free after 8 most nights. I’m taking you out for dinner tonight before I go to work at 11.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll pick you up here.”

“See you then.”

A moment of pity washes over me as I walk back in, but it vanishes when I remember Jurell’s comment about my age.

“Where’s my twenty?”