Notes on Catholocism

Anyone who doesn't like Atlanta has never been to Atlanta.

Seriously.

This is the story of the first time I went to Atlanta, the unassuming victims I brought with me, and the time I desecrated an entire religion.  All entirely by accident...mostly.

Without really knowing what we were getting into, three friends and I boarded into K-V's Jimmy (which had no A/C and smelled like sweat and wet climbing gear, but had some sweet road trip games in the back seat) and took a day trip to HOTlanta.
Demographic breakdown:
Myself- hailing from the suburbs, the author is convinced that she is waaaay more hood than she actually is, but as the brownest member of this particular group of friends, she carries the party on make-believe street cred.  A celebrity in her own mind, you may know her as "Peaches".
Double dub- a striking blonde from a suburb of Jacksonville, J.Dub is quick to defend herself as anything but the damsel in distress, but since she looks so damn much like a damsel in distress, no one listens.  The girls' got the chops, but has never had to use them.
Kdog- tougher than most men I know, Kdog can outdance just about anyone, and makes terrible, terrible mixed drinks.  Also, does not know how to frown, but knows every lyric to every rap song ever.  Governs her life on a series of strange and seemingly haphazard rules, all the while having absolutely no inhibitions.
Prince Valium- No one even knows what that name means, but this guy kept us all grounded, I guess.  As grounded as we could be kept.  He's probably the only one of us who has a real, grown up job.  Notable achievements: eating an entire box of oatmeal raisin cookies, never wearing his dancebelt.
Jackie- Easily identified by a polo shirt and yacht club membership, he once walked into a mall in the middle of the ghetto and asked where he could find the "mall where everything didn't fall of the back of a truck".  Famous for converting a Wendy's into a class-act "wangs n thangs", as well as promoting general debauchery wherever he goes. 

After a raucous morning at "Atlanta underground" and "The world of Coca-Cola", Jackie decided we should get lost in the ghetto.  For shits and giggles.
But first we should probably stop on the street corner and get custom grills made.  Which only cost $20.  And were custom made out of aluminum foil by a crackhead named Francisco.
After about 15 minutes in the aforementioned Peachtree City Mall, our group intuition told us that maybe this was a weird choice for the afternoon.
"Hey, I think the oldest church in Atlanta is somewhere around here, I've been there before"
"Oh, sweet.  Lets go check that out instead of getting angry glances from the people who live here and don't appreciate five white college students treating their neighborhood like the goddamn San Diego Wild Animal Park"

The church was closed, but our ever charming master of ceremonies just popped that collar and swindled the patron into letting us explore.
Your move, father.
I had never been in a Catholic church before.   That's probably not true, but I had certainly never been alone in a Catholic church before, with free range to explore all of the vestments and altars and whathaveyou.
Double dub and I proceeded to sneak around to a particularly enticing raised platform, upon which sat a particularly enticing stone pedestal of sorts.  On the back side of said pedestal was a teeny tiny, wee little door.  Any guys, here's the thing- I just want to impress Indiana Jones, all right?
Curiouser and curiouser.
As Double dub and I opened the portal in question, and gingerly reached a hand in to grasp whatever secret treasure certainly laid inside, we heard a strange noise come from across the sanctuary.
"Close it!  Close that door!  No!No!No! Close it!"
Up runs Senor Jackie and his valium steed- "Shannon.  That is the tabernacle.  Get down from there. What the hell are you doing?"
Tabernacle.  Right.  Good.  I mean- they really shouldn't leave something like that so tempting and accessible.  It should at least be behind a rope or something, right?
Cue rope, stage left.
Oh.

For those of you who don't live in the time of Moses, the Tabernacle is, traditionally, the dwelling place of  the divine, used whilst the Hebrews were fleeing Egypt.  It housed the Arc of the Covenant, which, as we all know, melts Nazi faces:

Thankfully, that Tabernacle was destroyed, and the Arc of the Covenant now lives in a secret warehouse in George Lucas' basement.

Also, thankfully, we were in a Catholic church, wherein the tabernacle holds the express purpose of housing the consecrated Eucharist.  I mean, it's like whatever.

Hey, Indy.  Call me.

Shabu, the healer of fears.

I re-read the first four or five posts of my blog and thought, "Man.  I'm pretty funny and have an interesting life".  To make up for the fact that I haven't posted in six months, and to re-convince myself that I'm not a stick in the mud, here's a weird one:

Now, admittedly, I have a problem.  I absolutely cannot resist the opportunity to make a friend.  Bonus points if potential friend has a noticeable quirk, like being the stoic Chechnyan owner of a bakery in the Outer Richmond or the affable gay bartender at your friends' wedding who refused to make you a martini when all you really wanted were the olives. 

I had been living in Captain Cook, Hawaii for three months, working on an organic farm (not really, though).  As our journey neared an end, I swindled my boo at the time into renting a car for two weeks and getting to know the intricacies of the place I had come to love as home.  The first stop on our journey was the Kona coast, where our lovely matriarch at Rainbow Plantation had agreed to rent us a fancy condo in downtown Kona for next to nothing. 

The condo was a short walk from the farmers market, and as I was returning home one morning with an abundance of sexy fruits like papaya, guava, mangoes, lilikoi, lychee (holy asmo I could go on for days) I saw a lanky beardo bounding through traffic in my direction.  Upon his arrival he presented me with a rose made from a palm frond, and the sentence, "I almost got hit by a car to give you this."  I blushed and thanked him and made my way back to the condo, where a morning Mai Tai certainly awaited.

Target acquired.  This man would be my new friend.

Later that night, Brandon (aforementioned boo) invited some toolbag friends (no shit, this girl's last name was Champagne) over to the condo to polish off a box of wine.  His friends being annoying bros who just came to get lei'd (PUN INTENDED), they were killin the vibe and I went to go put my feet in the ocean.  Because the ocean was 30 feet in front of our door because, guys, I used to live in Hawaii.

I crossed the street and noticed my friend from earlier was sitting on the seawall, selling his palm frond roses to the nightly batch of touristas.

"Hey.  Is it okay to climb over the seawall and put my feet in the water?"
"You just do whatever your heart tells you to do."
damnhippies.

I proceeded to hoist myself over the seawall and wade knee deep into the water, flowy bohemian skirt and all.  frikin.hippies.

Shabby rose man followed, saying things like, "We all came from the water, so it's natural that the water is where we are drawn to return."

I spent the next THREE hours talking to this man. Post midnight, ya'll. Side note: thanks a lot for coming to make sure I wasn't dead, friends.

After several attempts to convince me to go on a midnight swim proved fruitless, rose peddler starting probing into the inner reaches of my psyche for the real reasons.

The real reason?  SHARKS.  seriously, fuck sharks.  Jumping off a rocky ledge and swimming in the middle of the g-d pacific ocean, in the dark, seems like a really.fucking.bad.idea.  Especially when your only guide is a shabby dude who sells palm fronds for a living.
Vagabond?  Yes.  Insane?  Arguably.  Stupid?  Not this time.

"I just wanted to come put my feet in the water.  We'd have to hurl ourselves over that rocky ledge to get to swimming depths, and aside from not knowing how to get back out, jumping off a cliff into the ocean at night seems like a bad idea."
"You need to let go of your fears, they'll hold you back."
"Agreed.  But this is a rational fear."
"Do you know why you were drawn to this particular section of beach, and why you approached me tonight?"
Because I live across the street and yours is a familiar face?"
"Because I am Shabu, and I am the healer of fears."

Now, this is an opportune moment.  At this time you can either say, "Alright.  Well, you're nutso and I'm going to return to the safety of my apartment."  OR "I could use some fear healin'.  Bring on the weirdness."

Shabu read my palm (results inconclusive.  I don't think he's really a palm reader. ) and weaved some tiny white flowers into my hair.  Of course, he said they weren't flowers, they were stars.
We spoke about connecting to the spirit world and the oneness of the universe, and he never actually healed any fears, but mostly talked about how he was a healer and spoke of all the souls he has healed right on this very seawall. Then he leapt from the seawall behind Bubba Gump Shrimp company and slipped away into the blackest ocean, and I never saw him again.

He was a loving soul, and overall, the advice was sound.  If some shit's gonna hold you back- dump it like old garbage.  I never did get into the water.  

The time my Mom made me join a cult

Just read that title.  Go away, I'm done here. 

J/K

My mother, an unassuming woman not even 5 feet tall, is the sort of person the cashier at Publix talks to about her dead cat Garfield for 20 minutes, while the converyor belt just piles up everyone else's groceries until they start leaving.  (Actually happened). Maybe time consuming and bothersome, but no harm no foul. The line is drawn where my mother will actually stop and talk to the crazy homeless lady in Union Square about Michael Jackson being the savior of our race before giving her $5 (also actually happened).  That goes to say, she's eternally empathetic, consistently sees the good in everyone... and this frequently (usually... more often than not... always.) crowds her better judgement. 

Me?  Guilty as charged.  I, too, have this curse, coupled with a electro-weirdo magnet installed in my chest like IronMan.  And without all that benevolence garbage.

So my Mom came to visit me in lovely Winter Park, FL, where we took a stroll down around the fancy shops and restaurants of Park Avenue.  Park Avenue- famous for upper class white folk, stroller moms, Rollins College students, and overpriced everything (butgreat happy hours).  Not famous for crazy hippies and cult leaders.

As we exited Penzey's Spices, a couple intersected us.  The man looked remarkably like Moby (really? again?), but clad in tie-dye.  The woman was softspoken and charming, dressed in autumn colors of many layers and textures.  She had long, brown hair and a round face.  She asked us if we would like to hear about the Avatar Project, and take a minute to talk about compassion.

Red flag.  Like the ProActiv people in the mall, folks like this are to be 100% cold-shouldered.
NOPE.
My sweet mother, not wanting to hurt their feelings, complied.

We participated in a short excersize in compassion, which was unfortunately very relaxing.  After we were done, we were offered the opportunity to attend a seminar on this particular breed of compassion.  No, thanks.

You guessed it, Mom's all in.  Except Mom isn't local.  How sad for her, because she really, really wishes she could go.  Oh, what a drag.  Well, good thing her daughter is local, because she would certainly love to go.  In fact- here's her contact information.  Oh, no, no, Mom is in the process of moving and can't possibly be reached, but you can get in contact with her through her unwilling daughter, who again would be delighted to attend your seminar on how aliens live in our brains and turn us against each other, L Ron.

So now I get twice- weekly calls from these lovely people telling me all about how I can increase the colors of my aura, and get those goddamned aliens out, and why haven't you come to a seminar yet, we have them once a month in Longwood?

I'll post an update once I go to one of those bad boys.

Zombies

I forgot I had a blog, so to make up to myself, here are some zombie stories.

Once Bruce Campbell came to speak at FSU.  My sister and I went through hell and high water to get there, and once there he verbally accosted me for being a smart ass.  Then we tried to follow him home.  Thwarted!



Really, here's the good story:

The institution I currently work for does an annual conference of sorts, with various themes to the three day event.  This particular night was, you guessed it, zombie themed.

I was working bag check for the event when a middle aged gentleman (talking early 50s here) approached with an unholy amount of goods and assorted paraphernalia.  It was all very dirty, and covered in blood.  Like all good zombie baggage should be.

As I wrote out his claim check I remarked, "Wow!  You're a really good zombie!"

My compliments to his expertly crafted costume were approached thusly:
"Well, yes.  I am a professional zombie."

Then he handed me a business card.
No joke, his business card said "Dave Miller, professional zombie".  It's the second greatest business card I've ever been given.

The next day, the card was passed on to alternative services, because I have a dear friend who I thought might be interested in his next offer...

You see, as downtown Orlando is extra spooky haunted, Dave the professional zombie thought to offer his services for a ghost tour.    Because he knows some actual ghosts.   That would take me on a tour.

One of my few regrets in life is not going on that tour.

There have been no zombie sightings since, but Halloween is coming up.

Everyone's a little bit racist

That's right, I saw Avenue Q.

No really, I didn't, but I listened to that song a lot (thanks again, Lauren).

Here's the truth, I was walking out of publix today when a man stopped me and said, "Excuse me, where are you from?"
"...Here?  I live down the street..."
"No, I mean... you look like you're from the Islands...  I'm from Barbados and you look like you're from Barbados, I was just wondering if you were."
"No... no, sorry."

I would like to know, 1) How this is an appropriate thing to say to a stranger.  2) What, specifically, someone from Barbados looks like, and 3) Why does this happen to me all the time?


So, to all my ethnically ambiguous brothers and sisters, the top ten most racist things people have said to me.  All of these, mind you, are entirely unprovoked.

1)While walking by my desk, a coworker stopped and commented, loudly, "...So what are you like... bi-racial or something?"

2) While I was playing the xylophone with her child, "Would you be willing to nanny?  I'm looking for someone who will speak Spanish to her."

3) While working guest services at an American Indian heritage site, "So, did they hire you because you're Apalachee?"

4) 10 seconds after walking into dollar general, "Excuse me, miss?  Can you follow me?" 
"Oh, um... sure."
"I need you to explain to this woman that the balloons are $1 each, not $1 for the bouquet."
"..."
"She doesn't speak English"
"Yeah, I only speak English"

5)At a Starbucks: "Hi.  Can you translate something for me?  I want to get 'honor' tattooed on my calf in Hebrew, and I want to make sure I spelled it correctly."
"..."
"You're Israeli, right?"

6) Friend of my sister: "I didn't realize you were sisters!  I mean, you look so... ethnic."

7) Customer at Steak-n-Shake, "Are you naturally brown like that? Or do you tan?"

8)Hairstylist, "I mean... I have just never seen hair this texture before.  What are you supposed to do with it?"  (Disclaimer- I have regular ass brown hair.  It's not even that effing curly)

9) While getting fingerprinted for a job, "What does "O" under race/ ethnicity mean?"
"Other.  I'm bi-racial, and that's not an option, so I put other."
"Well, you look white to me.  So today you're white."
Then she whited-out my "O" and put a "W"

10) At countless dive bars, "Do you mind if I guess where you're from?"
"It costs a dollar."


Is this a phenomenon that brown hairds experience frequently?

I know this shit happens to other people.

Scummer camp

I've been working in summer camps for entirely too long.

Always day camps.  Not jewish sleep away camps in the Catskills.  Not happy heavens in the Appalachians, nor ranches in Texas.  No, these camps are not Camp Firewood.  Ugg and Donkeylips play no part.  This is not the Bar None Dude ranch, sorry Melody. 

This is science camp.  This is archaeology camp.  This is aftercare at the YMCA.   This is a half step above Vacation Bible School.  If you're lucky, this is Circus camp (but you had to be one of 25 kids that lived in PCB for 7 weeks during the summer of 2008 before Don Hamrick, better known as "That SOB Don Hamrick" decided to ruin all of our lives).  If you're REALLY lucky, this is Callaway Gardens, and you're from Louisiana, and you're about to get schooled.

So, in honor of all those impressionable children I and a great many others have (hopefully) left marks (scars?) on- the top 10 funniest things kids have ever said to me, in no particular order:

1) "You know, ants do feel pretty interesting when you pet them."

2) "I ate sand once.  I didn't like the taste, but it had a nice crunch."

3) Teacher: "Does anyone know kind of animal a possum is?  It starts with an M...."
    Child:  "MENSTRUATION!"
     Other child:  "They get killed in the road because sometimes they're in their brother"

4) Adult:   "Why are you punching yourself in the face?"
    Child:   "To protect my nose."
    Adult:    "How does that protect your nose?"
    Child:     "You know... in case killer bees attack.  Like, if I get my nose used to the pain it won't hurt as much."

5) Child: "I'm a mermaid."
     Adult: "Sweet, can I be a mermaid, too?"
     Child:  "No, I'm the last mermaid."
     Adult: "What happened to all the other mermaids?"
    Child:   "You didn't know?  Hitler killed them.  In World War II.  He didn't like the color of their fins and they weren't blonde."

6)  "Be still, ball!  I'll rearrange your spleen!"

7) "When I get nervous, I get a funny feeling in my special luggage!"

8) "Once I saw two owls making out."

9) "I wish I could bite my back!"

10)  "Whispers fight fire"

And an extra special bonus, just an important thing I would like ya'll to know:

"Baby puppies are not like baby lions"

Summer's not over, and there's plenty more where those came from, so stick around for another installment.  That's right, we're doing this VH1-style.

oh nine, so fine

So you probably want to know about the aforementioned best new years eve ever, right?

New Years Eve 2008... 2009? It was turning into 2009, so whatever that means.

I was at the tail end of a 3 month lease with a lovely artist from Marin County.  I was subletting her son's room in her cutesy little Mill Valley (Tam Junction, to be exact.  That's right, eat your heart out, Kerouac) townhome.  Move out day was January 1, 2009.  I was to move in to another sublet on Ocean Beach.  (For those of you who have been following- I finally made it into the city!!!)

Mill Valley is known for stroller moms, overpriced coffee, and obscure film festivals.   There's also a fair amount of runaway hippies living in the woods.  It is not known for fun things twenty-somethings can do in their free time.
 Enter my first real friend in the Bay Area.  Sonja was a Marin County native, and I loved her instantly.  We laughed a lot at work, and we hung out sometimes in San Rafael, the hippest digs in the North Yay.

Naturally, I headed up to San Rafael for New Years', expecting an early boring night because New Years' Eve is amatuer night at the club and it always blows chunks.
After a preliminary brew at a friend's unreasonably messy apartment we began the walk down to 4th street, where the only agreeable bar was.  (is? probably)

On the way, we passed an apartment that normal people would have walked by as they jokingly said, "Man!  They're having a party in there!  We should see if we can crash it!"

Spoiler alert!  We left that party at 5 am.

Andrew, our ringleader, opened the door of this townhouse to a rousing chorus of Salsa music and laughter and cheering.  We were hastily ushered inside and fed stereotypes like burritos and tequila.

We spent several hours salsa dancing and shooting back tequila before I realized... there is no way I'm ever leaving this party. 
No one there spoke English.  None of us spoke Spanish.  who... cares?

That's when they started gambling. 
"Oh, no, I don't have any money... thank you"
"Here, take!  I pay for you to play!"
"Oh no, no.  Really, I don't know how to play or anything."
"Take the dollar, you play, I show you."

Every time someone bet out, someone else would put money into their hands. Never any more than a dollar bill. It was just a giant circle of circulating money that never ended, because it was impossible to loose. 

FOUR HOURS LATER:
The game was clearly never going to end. 
How are these people still gambling?  I have no freakin idea what's going on.  I somehow have made $50, lost $78, gained it back, and lost it all again.  I never put any of my own money on this table.
How much money is on the table?
What...is...happening?

I walked away with $20, and the phone number of a man who called me "Sausalito Anna" and was going to teach me how to salsa "like a real Mexican".

Sonja and I left the party at 5 am.  The rest of our group soldiered on.
A few days later at work I learned that one of the girls walked away with $250.  Two hundred and fifty dollars worth of other people's money that they had no objection to random strangers who didn't speak their language taking.

Wait... what?