Communion Cracker Down!

If anyone doesn’t know what intinction is, it’s when you dip the cracker representation of Jesus’ body into the grape juice representation of Jesus’ blood and then eat the drippy bread-ish cracker.  It is done at church to remind people of Jesus.  It’s not like at Catholic Church where the priest lays the bread into your mouth and then pours a little wine into your mouth from a communal cup; it relies a lot more on the rememberer: his skill, his basic motor functions.  It’s a lot of pressure.

Yesterday, I dropped the cracker into the grape juice.

It started well.  I reached into the little wooden bowl and went for the big piece like I always do but then it ended up being an illusion of a big piece and I unsteadily came up with just the tiniest bit pinched sideways between my fingers.  People were behind me so I made for the juice quickly as the cracker wiggled back and forth like a guy climbing a sideways rope ladder toward a carnival prize.  Right when I thought I had it, post-dip and pre-rocket toward my mouth, it slips out and sinks to an unseen depth.

I’m like “dammit” under my breath, already assuring my spot in hell but then I just make the move like everything’s all right.  Empty hand up to lips and furious chewing of nothingness, feigned composure.   I turn quickly and walk back to my seat staring at the floor. 

I imagined the people playing pop-Christian music-to-commune-by up front looking at me to the side of their microphones, creasing their foreheads.  They hold themselves back from stopping the music, exposing me to the congregants and forcing me to fish out my sacramental failure, demanding an explanation, attempting an exorcism, hitting my forehead with their open palms. 

In my chair, I stare at the back of my eyelids pretending to feel the benefits of a successful communion and trying to guide my harried thoughts to a prayer.  After a few minutes, I give up and settle on the hope that God’s enjoyment of representations doesn’t extend to my empty mouth. 

Registry Rant

Know what’s really getting to me?  Picking out expensive things to fill up a wedding registry.  I barely give a hoot about kitchen appliances.  I enjoy cooking but I have stuff to cook with.  How much better can new pots cook macaroni and cheese?  I want a hiking backpack and a jet boil.  Maybe a circular saw.  All the rest can sleep soundly beneath the shadow of my indifference.

Friday Nights

It’s Friday, nerds, and that means stay up late watching Letterman.  Or maybe Jerry Springer cause they only play it late at night where I come from.  All the crazies come out on Friday and that’s why I’m staying in.  If the phone rings, I’ll let my mom get it but before she does, I’ll get very scared that it’s for me.  If I do get summoned, sometimes I lie and say I have plans.  After this happens, I want to bury my face is a pillow and wheeze my last nasaly breath with my glasses pressed against my eyelids and no friends in the world.  It’s the aimlessness really.  What’s the point?  Maybe we’ll end up cruising Broadway scoping out a drag race or find some coffee shop and do headstands.  What else is there to do?  Is tv watching not just as pointless?  Just without other people?  That’s where logic fails me and I turn to Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves or something – something to burn my skull from the inside.  Oh Baseketball.  Oh sweet Panic Room.

Wedding Hijinks

The problem with throwing centerpiece fruit into the trees at your friends’ wedding reception is that it might get eaten by a horse.  Who the hell knows what happens after that?  Maybe the horse gets a stomachache and falls down dead.  Maybe fruit loving hyenas catch the scent from Africa and attack your friend’s horse, who is now sweating citrus.  Maybe a girl horse gets frightened by the bright colors and some well-meaning boyfriend horse sees the fear as a weakness and forces the other horse to eat the fruit as a means of overcoming her phobia thereby cementing what was once at most a wariness into a full blown experiential terror at the sight, smell or taste of papaya. 

I don’t know about any of this; it’s all just possibilities.  All I know is drop kicking a lemon is just about the worst way to not get your pants dirty.

Blog Blood?

Do blogs have feelings?  What if I were to not write on one for a while?  How would it feel?  Would it reformat my charts?  Would it unexpectedly quit many times over?  If you prick a blog, will it not eat your documents? Oh blog of mine, forgive a lowly blogger for his blogless blog blog.

Wedding Wondering

When you are unemployed, one day you will go visit some friends’ wedding for a weekend in Tennessee.  The mead will flow and by doing so, anoint your virgin petals with the sweet nectar of hearty re-acquaintance.  Brothers and Sisters from another life will climb the heights to greet you and through the lens of their life-moves will you judge worthy your endeavors and strike to achieve them once more.  All your demons will rear and retreat while the whispy and transient ghost of prospect will wholly substantiate. 

And so, while the oppressive palm of doubt may press slowly but strongly from the reaches of your mind, forcing questions and negating answers, you, heartened, are able to win fortitude and bravery by minding timeless memories and witnessing warmth in the genuine smiles on the faces of the dear and hopefully soon-to-be-near.

The New Spinning Bookshelf

Macker and I are the proud owners of a spinning bookshelf.  We bought it from the Virgin Megastore that’s going out of business on Union Square.  I haggled for it.  100 dollars to 75 dollars.  I picked it up with my Plymouth.  It required disassembly to fit in my backseat.  I had to scoot my seat way up like I imagine a Smart Car is normally situated.  There it sits beneath our clock.  I feel lucky we have a TIME magazine subscription.  It gives our room the feel of a bookstore.  Like a café in a bookstore because it’s so close to the kitchen.  There’s a slot for a plaquard on top that may soon exclaim, “Book Shelf.”  There are several slots for further signage that may soon describe, “Eric’s Books” or “Mackenzie’s Books” or “Our Books.”  It’s kindof blocking the door buzzer, a wall socket, and the thermostat but it’s a small price to pay for the benefits of a spinning bookshelf.