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A Monday, like so many others, with an early twist.... As I was gathering my wits with my first cup of coffee and a cigarette on the front walk, continuing small talk with the Miss (as if nothing was a-miss), up rolls a silver car behind the Volvo. Before I had a glimpse of the driver... I knew exactly who it was. Yep, her Jehovah's Witness friends had stopped by for a visit, having missed her "meeting" last week. Jumpin' Jehosophat. Who ever that was. In the past, I have semi-terrorized these unprovoked invasions. Scuffling to the door in underpants and explosive bed hair. Sex Pistols blaring on the juke. They caught me away from my weapons, this morning. To be truthful, I'm still kinda freaked at the audacity of having prayer meetings in my living room, which I found out after the fact... though I'm not usually there on Tuesday evenings. Better than orgies, I suppose. And I can't tell anyone else what to believe, when I'm not convinced myself. Certainly not with most organized religion. That whole "Chosen Few" concept just rubs me the wrong way... and has been a great justification for genocide. Still is. Just... don't... dare... attempt... to... convert... ME! It brings out my worst. But there, they climbed the steps. I'm still in the cutoffs I wore yesterday. Same filthy shirt. Hair in angles that Sid Vicious would have fancied. As this was the first time I'd laid eyes on therm, I decided to spare the acid tongue. Bend like a reed in the wind. I'm sure the image spoke loudly enough. Could have been worse, certainly. They were cordial enough, and the husband spoke with me reasonably for a while... and never mentioned the "J" word. But, Holy Moly. Another brick in the wall, to quote one of my most un-favorite songs, ever. I was raised a Baptist. It is the south, after all. Had perfect attendance until my seventh year, while mom slept off her hangover at home. The rift occurred when... the Sunday school teacher tried to bribe us into learning the names of the chapters of the Scripture with a tie from his men's store as bait. Not exactly choice bait, and the whole "bribery" thing felt wrong from the get-go. Strike one. My mother's last husband was Catholic, so I was Catholic for a month... that's how long the marriage lasted. Bizarre pre-Exorcist vibes in that place. Strike two. I'm not sure about the third strike. I went to a Bretheren college... drugs aplenty on campus, and I'm sure I was accepted mostly for my German last name. But they had an accepting peace about them. I prefered Jaguars to buggy rides, though. OK, now I remember... Strike Three. The printshop I worked in before this one... an arch-conservative think-tank, buddied up with Jerry Falw*ll, Jimmy Sh-waggart, Jim and Ol' Spider Eyes. I need say no more. Sure, i took the money. But I was a total chemically-altered, punked-out butthole. They certainly got what they paid for. DJing a reggae show for ten years is undeniably a religion-thing. Impossible to separate. But the message of accepting everybody, united under a groove, is a lot easier to get comfortable with than strict RastaDogma. This has gotten a lot more involved than the clock is allowing. And, the sooner I escape the fluorescence, the better I'll be. To be continued... cross my heart. |
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