Monday, March 08, 2004

An overdue quote...

Lladi: Marcus is younger than us huh?
Dion: Like six years younger.
Marcus: But ten times sexier!

Congrats Marcus on your acceptance to Sonoma State!

Lladira at 9:18 PM

WOW!! This story is Amazing! It was sent to me by one of my pen pals!

by Paul S. Rhodes

Rosenmontag

On the Monday before Lent, I woke up with a firm plan to go to St.Louis. I was up at 6:30, showered, dressed, and it was still only 7:10. I had oodles of time to catch the last commuter bus. I considered catching the penultimate bus at 7:30, considering my very poor record of catching last buses, but then I remembered that I had taped An American Werwolf in London. I had already seen it but on a local station which cut one particular scene to ribbons (or so I thought). The past weekend Starz! had broadcast what is called a Freeview. So, I taped the unedited version of American Werwolf at last! And I was very curious to see what the local station had left out of this one particular scene. So, I did not catch the 7:30. No, I stayed and fast-forwarded to that scene. The local station, I found to my disappointment, had not left that much out at all. But it was still 7:40. The Last Bus left at 8:20. I still had oodles of time. So, I made myself some Grape Juice and read some Liberal Theological Tract just to get my blood pumping. I like to shake my lingering drowsiness with good wholesome, religiously conservative rage.

I looked at the clock. 7:55. Time to go. I threw on my coat (which I, it turned out, did not need--damn Global Warming!), and was packing my backpack when the phone rang. It was eight o'clock. I answered it with perfect suavity, thinking I still had oodles of time. It was Dennis, my Atheist Friend with whom I love to argue. He was calling to tell me about a pro-Catholic episode of Northern Exposure, but I took the opportunity of his call to continue a debate we'd been having for three weeks now over the proper definition of marriage. Consequently, the call ate into my oodles, and before I knew it, my oodles were all gone. I looked at the clock and my still unpacked backpack. I panicked. Just as Dennis was about to embark on his rejoinder, I cut him off. Free inquiry had to give way to the second hand. I stuffed my backpack and ran out. I ran and I ran and I ran and missed the bus by 30 freaking seconds.

I live out in the bluffs in Southwestern Illinois. My neighborhood, if you can call where I live a neighborhood, is just long stretches of highways and farm land. Because I may not drive a car, I must rely on either my oversized tricycle or my feet to get around. That's why weekday mornings are special because then I can avail myself of the commuter bus which passes right by my road. But special no longer. This was the very last commuter bus to St. Louis for the day. There was a bus I could take to the Metrolink Station in E. St. Louis, but the stop for that line was five miles away. My trike was broke, and my record with hitchhiking was even worse than my record of catching the Last Bus. I would have to walk five long miles along the shoulder of a decidedly unscenic highway. All I would see would be miles and miles of as yet unplanted dirt (or rows and rows of prefabbed dollhouses of noveau suburbiana) and then eventually a Wal-Mart where the bus stop was. Lent had not even started. This was unfair. I did not want to walk, but walk I did, although not before I said a few choice words in as loud and visceral a voice as my smoke-filled lungs could muster. I was at this point homicidal. But,unlike products of American Public Education, not indiscriminitely so. No, I knew exactly whom I wanted to kill--Dennis. Had Dennis not called, I would have still had my precious oodles and would not have missed the Last Bus by Thirty Lousy Seconds. Dennis robbed me of my Thirty Seconds, and I wanted him to pay.

So, there I was by the side of a State Highway acting like a discovered Rumpelstilzchen. For quite some time I shouted or did my damnedest to shout every invective and curse known to man since the Fall. But then I looked around and saw farmhands chewing tobacco and staring at me. It was a scene from Hitchcock. Motorists slowed down, and as they passed me, I could see them talking into their cell phones as they tried to see if my forehead had numbering on it .

It dawned on me that this conniption fit of mine might just well get me hauled in by the Highway Patrol. It would be prudent to calm down. But I just couldn't. I had been robbed of my Thirty Seconds, and such a crime indeed cries to the heavens above for vengeance. Well, I wanted it to cry that far, at least. Justice was at stake by Jove! And in matters of justice, prudential concerns must stand aside. But I really didn't want to be picked up by the cops. Therefore, I had to convince myself that justice really wasn't at stake. Otherwise, I would be putting prudence over justice, that would be pragmatic, and I, being the pure, unadulterated idealist that I am, deplore pragmatism. No, for me to act sane again, I had to convince myself that I had no principled reason to be insane. This was difficult, of course, because if Dennis had not robbed me of my rightful Thirty Seconds, well, then I would not have anybody to blame but myself for missing that Last Bus. I didn't like this prospect at all, so I continued to curse the day Dennis was born.

Eventually, though, sobriety prevailed. I had to admit that Dennis was not to blame for had I let him say what he had intended to say, the call would have lasted a fraction of a minute, and I would have had my oodles still. No, Dennis did not make me dilatory, my love of Klatsch did. The reasoning was as inexorable as Calvinism, and I hated it, but, yes, I had to admit that I no longer had grounds to kill Dennis in a glory of righteous rage. I sighed. Also, I had to admit that had I left at 7:10 instead of staying to watch the unedited version of that one particular scene, I would already be in good Saint Louis. It was highly likely that God was punishing me for my impatient curiosity, not to mention my disregard of custodia oculorum. In a matter of seconds, I had gone from would-be righteous avenger to totally depraved sinner.

So, I started walking. But my conniption fit had not ebbed. No, it swelled, in fact. I was now conscious of my sinful nature, of my very own personal wretchedness. I was walking dung in a strait-jacket of despair and could only curse my own fate. I did so thunderously and was thereby still courting the Highway Patrol. Of course, my being cuffed and thrown into a roach-infested jail would be too much mercy for such an evil, evil man as myself. Justice required at least a disembowlment at an auto-de-fe. But, no, Justice for others was fine and dandy, but not for me, thanks. So, I cravenly tried to shut myself up so that I would look like an upright and decent member of the Elect--rank hypocrisy was my only hope--but I could not control my cursing, so very degenerate had I become. I lit up a fag, but the influx of nicotine did nothing. Then, I remembered that I had my Rosary in my coat pocket. I pulled it out and started saying the Rosary. I said the Creed, the Our Father, and the Glory Be in English, but the Ave Maria in Latin. This calmed me down on a sudden. I was praying for others, and so no longer was I concerned about my own salvation.

I was on the second decade when the Highway Patrol finally came. I continued praying. When the two Illinois State Police Officers asked me for identification, I prayed aloud. They asked me if I was in need of medication. I prayed louder. I knew that I was coming perilously close to pious grandstanding but had to finish the decade for if I had stopped, I just knew I would do something stupid such as, say, calling the cops Stalinist Pigs and trying to kick them both in the shins. The officers kept badgering me to answer at least one of their inquiries: "Sir, do you need help?" "May we see your I.D.?" "Were you dumped?" But I kept to my repetitions of Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus. Finally, the older officer said to the younger, "He'll be done after that bead." They waited.

I completed the second decade, told them my name, apologised for making them wait, and explained why I didn't stop. They both expressed their gratitude that I had not stopped until completion of the second decade. Then after doing a thorough check into my possible priors, the younger cop offered me a ride to the bus stop, which I graciously accepted. I know, I should have said that I was a spider or some loathsome vermin, hanging by a thread over the pit of hell, and as such did not deserve such gratuitous kindness (I should have been happy with the thread), but I just did not feel like it.
During the ride to the bus stop, the officer timidly asked me what language I was speaking. Odd, I thought. Timidity of voice doesn't usually come from a man with a loaded gun. Latin, I answered. Then the cop started to stutter.

"You're a Catholic, right?" he stammered.
"Yes, I am," I answered. I should have added for the sake of clarity,
"a very bad one," but everyone should know this by now.
"I hope you don't mind me asking."
"Not at all." Then, after some thought, I asked him what his religion
was, if he did not mind my asking, that is.
He said he was baptised Catholic, but when he grew up, he started doing some research, especially after he met his Baptist Wife. This research made him want to become a Christian, but then he hastened to add,
"But Catholics are Christians, too," his voice faltered, "I did not mean to
imply..."
"So, why did you switch?" I asked.
"Well, uh, for lots of reasons." He proceeded to tick off a whole raft of reasons: Mariolatry, prayers to the saints, Confession, Purgatory, the outrageous idolatry of the Mass.

I then proceeded to answer his objections one by one as gently as my choleric temperment would allow me. Of course, I wanted to rack him and burn his heretic wife at the stake, but that was out. He had the gun, and I had none. Besides, racking him would have been a most ungrateful gesture. Principle gave way to prudence once again, I suppose. So, I referred him to various passages in the Bible that support these most blasphemous Catholic practices. I tried even to quote these passages, but, the typical Catholic that I am, I did not have any of the passages committed well enough to memory to quote them with any kind of compelling charismatic fervor. But, curiously enough, neither did this Protestant Cop. Which was fine by me. I have grown numb to Ephesians 2:8-9 quoted as if 2:10 were something barely short of Satanic Marginalia. I wanted to quote the passages to him precisely and in context, but, alas, the only Bible I had with me was a Luther Bible in German because it is the only pocket-size Bible I own. The irony is, of course, more than obvious.

We reached the Bus Stop, but the Cop still wanted to talk. His voice had regained a little of the confidence befitting a man with a gun, but a distinct quaver remained. He went on and on about how he could not see why I don't just pray directly to God. I asked him about his pressing duties for the good State of Illinois, but he said he had lots of time to talk. Then he stared at me, waiting breathlessly for my response. I asked him if he prayed for his family. He said sure. Well, the people on earth and the saints in heaven are one big family, wouldn't you say? The officer quavered out an affirmative. Well, wouldn't you want our brothers up there, so clean and so purified, praying for us who are piles of ripe dung down here? He just looked at me as he did when I was praying in Latin. Anyway, I gave him my home phone number so that he could reach me easily anytime for spiritual consultation. As if I needed to make it easier for cops to get ahold of me!

God, I am sure, was trying to tell me something. I am no prophet (at least, I hope not), and perhaps my nostrils are too clogged by Protestant obsessions with my own depravity to sniff the sweetness of His message in a scented wind, but, if anything, God has demonstrated very clearly that he has a very frustrating sense of humour.


Lladira at 6:30 PM

Monday, March 01, 2004

Love is like...a sandwich??

Capricorn

December 22 - January 19
Falling in love is like eating a good sandwich: The bigger and messier it is, the more enjoyable. Trouble is, you're not too fond of sticky fingers, literally or metaphorically. Loosen up, dig in and order a side of extra sauce. If you've already gotten your hands on a good 'sandwich,' now is not the time to suddenly get finicky. Let your sweetie know you'd like to supersize your order of love by showering them with special attentions. Phrase of the week in either case: Don't hold back.
Lladira at 5:54 PM