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.