Power Of God

Michelle, er--SaxyGal requested a story like this, so I gave it a shot.

1981 was a horrible year for me.

Somewhere around the end of May, all my friends decided they hated me and would no longer speak to me. They maintained their silence until December or longer. It was probably December, because that's when I decided I was sick of people fucking with me. Their silence no longer had power over me, so they ended it.

So there I was, 13 years old, had braces, had to cut off all my hair because I was given a bad perm and literally couldn't comb through my hair. Well, it was maybe 2 inches long, but it was a "cute" haircut. I hate cute hair. Don't ever tell me my hair is cute; I will take it as an insult and tell you so.

Then my grandma died suddenly. I didn't have any friends to call and talk about it.

So from May until December of 1981, my life was once continual craptacular, except for ONE thing: I got my braces off and my teeth looked great. But, once again, I had no one to tell.

That December was really cold and really empty; facing your first Christmas without Grandma when you're 13 is depressing, and not in any way that anyone can help you. It sucks, it's going to continue sucking, until one day it doesn't, which as I recall was somewhere around 1983.

You'd think our family would have--being God-fearin' Minnesotans--taken comfort in our church and the fellowship it offered. You could think that, and you'd be wrong.

That December, on an average week I spent two hours every Sunday morning, two hours every Wednesday afternoon and one every Wednesday evening, and three hours on Saturday for the Sunday School Christmas Program rehearsal. Plus there was the Program itself, and the Christmas Eve and Christmas Day church services. That's a grand total of...43 hours, give or take, during December 1981, when I was in church. And I felt the presence of God...um, maybe for an hour on Christmas Eve. The rest, I just felt the presence of a bunch of busybodies and an arrogant pastor.

I did, however, feel the power of God for a short while. This is the moment when I decided I was sick of people fucking with me.

We were at rehearsal for the Sunday School Christmas Program. It was maybe the second week of December. It was probably our second rehearsal.

These programs were always a case of too many cooks in the kitchen. The pastor wrote it. This woman named Betty tried to direct it, though I don't know if that was even her job. Carol was the organist, and she was the only one who had any competence and the wisdom to shut up.

Another thing about these programs is that there's only one story to tell, right? It's always the same story, however it gets told. But the pastor would always write a new script. It usually rhymed. I don't know why; maybe it was cute. And we all know how I feel about "cute." For some reason, no less that FOUR times, four separate years, guess who got to be the FIRST PERSON TO SPEAK? Um, yeah, me. You'd think, being there were at times as many as 30 kids in this Sunday School (and it was a tiny little church) that perhaps ONCE I would get stuck with that job? But four? FOUR???? It was a conspiracy. I truly believe that.

So, since I was first, they would spend a stupidly long time evaluating my performance.

"Okay, read your line."

They would realize no one had turned on the mike. So they'd turn it on, too loud.

"Okay, read your line."

AHHHH FEEDBACK!

Plus, being short, the damn microphone was always to high for me, and they would alternate between telling me to adjust it for myself, and telling me to NOT TOUCH THE MIC!

And then, the thing I heard the most:

"Speak up. SPEAK UP! WE CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

I will now point out--I was shy. I had a quiet voice. And I didn't WANT to be speaking AT ALL. All of which, added together, means yelling "Speak up!" at me from 10 feet away (it was a TINY church) did not have the desired effect. Then they'd complain that they couldn't understand me through the speakers in the back because my words were mumbled.

I asked my mother, and later my Sunday school teacher, and even the Pastor, why I had to be first? Their answer????

"Because you have such a good speaking voice!"

WHAT.THE.FUCK.

Anyway, After spending 10 or 15 minutes on just me, they'd remember they had 29 other kids with parts to read, whom they would spend a much more reasonable amount of time, each, rehearsing their lines. Which rhymed.

So, as happened on that fateful Saturday, that Second Rehearsal Of Four Of The Year, we struggled through all the speakers. We struggled through the logistics of how to handle the microphone. We struggled through the props, and we even suffered through the Pastor's daughter's singing solo.

The child had a horrible voice. She didn't even ATTEND our Sunday School--she went to the pastor's other church in town. And yet she had a fucking SOLO in OUR program? Yeah, even the worst of the church ladies thought THAT was fucked up.

We'd been through the whole thing, we rehearsed the recessional. We'd been there since 9am, missing the Laff-A-Lympics and American Bandstand, waiting for noon so we could go home and get on with our lives.

It was 11:55.

Then Betty, the "director" said, "Okay, that was great. Let's go through it again!"

I thought, what? What about lunch? The whole program that just took us three hours, she wants to do in 5 minutes? And here's the deal: no one objected. No one said anything to contradict her!

She turned to me. "Janice, you're first! Come up and read your line!"

Dumbstruck, I lined up, my classmates behind me. I stepped up to the mic, looked out at the pews, opened my mouth, and began, "W..."

I choked. I was about to cry. I was going to cry in front of the whole Sunday School because of that bitch! And I realized it was wrong. Just.Wrong.

I also realized that God probably agreed with me. He would NOT strike me down for doing what had to be done. If I acted, everyone else would have to follow.

So I dropped my script, and I walked out of the church. I went into the basement. All churches in Minnesota have basements. By this time I was freaking out, because though I knew God wouldn't punish me, Mom still had that option. So I sat down and started to cry. I didn't get far though, because just as I sat down, my Mom walked into the basement, carrying my jacket along with her own, and her purse. And here's the cool part: she was followed by the parents--that is, all the parents who were not currently teaching Sunday School.

They all thought Director Betty was as fucked up as I did.

"I have a hotdish in the oven that's going to be done in ten minutes," my mom said loud enough for the other moms to hear. A lot of them said they did too.

("Hotdish" is Minnesotan for "casserole.")

A couple of minutes later the rest of the Sunday School was released from servitude by Dictator Betty. Mom let me go out to the car ahead of them, so I could finish crying.

Oppression upsets me, okay?

But that one time, I got to smite oppression, with the Power of God behind me. And the Power of Mom, too.

Tax

You know, I have no reason to complain. But yet I do.

This morning I was busy 7:30 until 11:30 trying to get my homestead tax exemption filed in such a manner that I could prove it's been filed. Tried the OurTown office. "Nope, we only mail them." Tried the CountySeatTown office. "Nope, we only mail them." Wha???? Turns out the tax administration building is separate from the tax payment offices, and in fact is nowhere near the tax assessor himself. The lady who finally did help me was wonderful. The other people? No so much. Oh, and I had to stop home in between the first and second stops to have a fight with The Dave. Then I left the kids by themselves while I tried the second time, but since I couldn't call or anything to let them know I'd be very late (Stick Girl's phone didn't work) I had to go home to tell them I would be gone another hour.

So I've totally blown my diet--which I just got back onto Tuesday--by eating half a tube of fat-free Pringles and since I went that far, I'm now having beer. I will not, however, go out and buy cigarettes because if I want to throw away money like that, I may as well buy a lottery ticket.

We bowled ONCE.

When I tell my Texas friends that I used to hang out at the bowling alley all the time, but only bowled once, most of them are confused. A lot of them think that's weird, but a few "get it."

With explanation, they all get it. "Oh, it had an arcade. NOW I understand."

It makes me want to say, "No, I don't think you do. We never called it the arcade. We never referred to the games as arcade games. It was "The Alley." And they were just VIDEO games. No need to fancy it up with such a title as "arcade." That word was for other places--bigger places where we obviously weren't.

It was a rare occasion for me to even play one of the games. Mostly I watched others play.

In particular, my brother The Boy's best friend, Spec. Forces Ed, was a phenom on Pac-Man. He could play forever, until he got distracted or tired or just bored with playing. He usually had a crowd around him. Then the Powers that Be replaced the Pac-Man machine with Ms. Pac-Man, damn them!

I never thought about that before--obviously, very little money was being made off Pac-Man if Ed was playing it for an hour at a time on $.25, when usually a game like that should bring in several dollars an hour.

Mostly we all stood around, playing games or watching others, leaving to drive around town for a while and then coming back. You know--hanging out. Well, I was mostly tagging along. But as long as I wasn't a pain in the ass and didn't embarrass them, The Boy and Spec. Forces Ed would allow me in their presence.

The Alley was also, of course, a bowling alley and pool hall. We got to go there every fall for gym class, and I would compete with the older girls to get the "best" pair of size 5.5 bowling shoes. (I usually got them, BTW.) Then there were the requisite birthday parties that were held there, and we went a few times when we needed to find someone's mom during Afternoon Leagues.

But only ONCE did we ever go there and just bowl. It was probably a Saturday or Sunday after New Years', so there were no Leagues going on, and the place was dead because the rest of the world was hungover or out drinking somewhere. The Boy, BeerHound, and I along with each of our best friends decided to bowl on a lark. Now granted, all of our friends were excellent bowlers, and it was us that were the charity cases, but it was fun. A lot of fun.

But then, that was The Alley.

*This was written because yesterday, The Alley, whose real name was Cactus Lanes, suffered a serious fire. All of us who spent a large chunk of our youth, and particularly those like Spec. Forces Ed who still spend a large chunk of their adulthood at the place, are concerned and heartbroken over this. We hope it can survive this. The place epitomizes what's missing today in a lot of people's lives: real face-to-face human interaction, physical activity, mindless entertainment, or to quote from the movie Dazed And Confused, "...good ol' worthwhile visceral experience."

So, to Steve, the current owner of the place: I hope you choose to keep on with the provision of visceral experiences. Because a bowling alley ain't just a bowling alley. Thanks.

Oh, about the quitting smoking

Just so's y'all know, I have been absolutely, totally, 100% successful in my quitting smoking. I quit at about 10 in the morning on June 2, 2008 and have not had another cigarette since.

I will attribute my success to three things: Wellbutrin, Nicoderm, and gas prices. I'll also give a nod to Jelly Belly lemon drops.

Here's how I did it:

1) Since I'm crazy, I was put on Wellbutrin a couple of months before quitting smoking. It made the cigarettes taste like dirt. I kept doing it, however.

2) Then gas prices got stupidly expensive, and I realized just how much a waste of money smoking is.

3) So I bit the bullet and bought a box of Nicoderm. Luckily the lady at the pharmacy warned me that people get hooked on the patches instead of the smokes, which had never even occurred to me, but it makes sense. What a cool way to get a nic-fix in private! No social repercussions when no one knows you're wearing your addiction on your ass! I originally bought the strongest strength, but it was so strong it freaked me out. I quickly switched to the next level down, and when I started forgetting to use it until halfway through the day, I didn't even bother to go to the third level down.

4) Whenever an urge to smoke hit me, I would first breathe REALLY deeply and thank God that I could. Then I'd go through all those things that the Nicoderm program tells you to. And if none of that worked, I would eat a lemon drop.

Ya see, lemon drops immediately make me salivate. And I like them. Pickles worked, too, if I wasn't in a mood for something sweet.

5) And then there's my family and friends who willingly talked to me on the phone when I needed encouragement, or just something to do.

But you know what? Talking about all this--it makes me want a cigarette.

And then he punched me

Some time in junior high, my brother The Boy came home with a story.

We were all required to tell a story when we came home from school. "How was school today?" was never answered with, "Fine."

"It was so funny! Cass was telling a story about this guy, he was just talking, this guy, and the said something about punching someone and when he did it, he threw a punch in the air to demonstrate. But just at that moment, someone walked around the corner and the guy accidentally punched him!!

"But here's the funny part! When CASS was telling the story, he did the same thing, see? He threw the punch. But just at that moment, Hammer walked around the corner and Cass punched him!"

By now, The Boy was pretty animated, waving his arms, imitating Hammer's shocked look.

"Isn't that funny? I mean he's ALREADY telling a story about someone accidentally punching someone, and it happens again! Just like--" he threw a punch.

Just as I walked around the corner.

Pocono recap

Sorry for the writer's block lately. If I knew how to unblock it, I would.

However, I do have a few things to say about Tony Stewart's win on Sunday.

1) WA-FUCKIN-HOO!!!!!

2) Really, spectacular. Fun to watch/listen to. Hey, I had to hear the last 34 laps on the radio, and do NOT get me started talking about why, because I guess I'm a little angry about that.

3) Carl Edwards is a whining dickwad. I understand being disappointed at loosing, but one's standing in the eyes of the fans is NOT improved by saying, "Well, I had the better car," and "I thought for sure he'd run out of gas." Mostly because this means, if Cousin Carl DID have the better car, then he lost due to bad driving or bad strategy. And saying he thought Tony would run out of gas (based on a race a couple of years ago when Tony DID run out of gas...in the old car and not the COT, with a different team and crew chief, on a different track) is just BAD STRATEGY. In other word, Cousin Carl: if you had the better car, WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T YOU WIN? Oh, wait, it's because Tony's a better driver, and also, you're a dickwad.

4) WA-FUCKIN-HOO!!!!!

RIP Koko Taylor

Koko Taylor has died. I really like her music, and I enjoyed meeting her briefly five years ago. I was on my way to Duluth for the Bayfront Blues Festival, and of course, so was she. Here's the re-post of the story of meeting her:


Originally posted 17 August 2004: All the sordid details, Vol. 1

Saxygal gave me a ride to the airport. My flight was at 6AM so we both had to get up at 0-dark:30. I changed planes in Chicago. I had to book it from one extreme end of one terminal to another terminal. Times like that, I'm really glad I used to hike and bike a lot; strap a backpack on me and it sends a signal to my feet to move fast and ignore hills.

Not that there are any hills in O'Hare, but still.

I only rushed because I thought my next flight would be boarding by the time I got there. Since I rushed, of course, it didn't board for a good 20 minutes.

So I sat down, only slightly out of breath, between two ladies who were chatting with each other: one, a total grandmotherly type, complete with ass spread, over-curled perm and orthopedic shoes. The other was probably of a similar age, but she was a really classy looking black lady.

So I started chatting with them. They wondered if my backpack was heavy, and I diplomatically told them that some would think so, but I was used to hefting toddlers so it didn't bother me.

We chatted about children in baby seats on planes. We chatted about the Concorde. We chatted about all manner of innocuous things, they way you do when you don't have a good book while waiting for a flight.

When I got off the plane, they were cleaning the women's bathroom. No pee break for me! My ride Skydog was about to walk in to the airport as I was coming out. He commented that Koko Taylor 's limo was out front and I might have ridden the plane with her.

I said, "Yeah, I did. In fact, I talked to her."

"What about?"

"Baby seats."

The BeerHound and her friend Paddy-Cakes were still an hour away due to unforseen drunkenness, so SkyDog and I went to his house for a kick-ass cup of coffee.

It felt good to breathe fresh air.