Time and the Secular Sacred

In my early 20s I went through a period of time when I thought very seriously about converting to Catholicism. (Well, not really converting, since that suggests moving from one religion to another, and since I was raised basically agnostic, I was really just thinking about joining the Catholic Church. "Converting" is a better and more interesting word than "joining"though.) My reasons for pursuing this were complicated, but also sort of strange, so I'm not going to go into that here. And that isn't the point anyway.

What is useful to know is that, for at least one year, I attended church regularly--first on Sunday mornings, and then on Sunday nights--and for several years I went for the major holidays, and one year I actually did "Inquiry", which, for the uninitiated, is sort of confirmation class for adults. Somewhere in there I heard a very, very good sermon on the liturgical calendar. The priest talked about how the Church calendar is split up into three kinds of time: feast time, fast time and ordinary time. He explained that the purpose of the fasting time is to give us a structured opportunity to meditate on our lives--to slow down and think about the blessings in our lives, but also to consider the nature of suffering, to remember (history, those who have died), to look within ourselves and evaluate our relationship with God, with others and with ourselves, and to identify space for improvement. The function of feast time is to celebrate, to give thanks, to bless one another. To live in joy. Then he argued that the important thing about both feast and fast times is the way in which they can (and are meant to) impact our lives within ordinary time, which constitutes the bulk of the liturgical year. Feasting and fasting provide perspective through which to see the rest of our days--the not-so-special days--imbuing them with more meaning and more intention.

This is one of the things that I find beautiful and profound about the Church; something I can recognize and incorporate in my life, even though I have ultimately decided that Catholicism is not something that I can really do.

***

For the past week my friend Nikki has been staying with me. She is moving out of Texas, to take a great job and to be closer to her family, and to be in a place that she loves, and doesn't just have to tolerate. She had to be out of her place by the 1st, but wanted to stick around another week, so she came here. And it has been great to have her. Not just because she is fun and we have a good time together, but because we are at similar points in our lives--both ending one chapter of our lives and opening another. We are both very much in transition.

Major moments of transition are a secular version of feast and fast time. When you have one foot in one world and one foot in another, life suddenly becomes so much more than it is in ordinary time. Time moves more quickly. There are more opportunities for celebrating and for socializing, but also for becoming introspective and for noticing the profound. It is a time for intense feeling and also for intense experiencing.

I feel lucky to have been able to have my transition overlap with Nikki's, because it has meant that I have been able to spend this non-ordinary time in a kind of communion with her. And over the course of the past week we have squeezed in a lot of living by:

Drinking (a lot) at all our favorite establishments.

Spending an hour in Best Buy trying to buy a radar detector from a nice (but rather clueless) guy named Daniel L.

Returning the radar detector when we realized that well-meaning Dan didn't sell us the right equipment.

Watching the whole third season of Weeds and the whole first season of 30 Rock on DVD.

Running into "the monster" three nights in a row.

Arguing over yoga (her for, me against).

Eating at suburban chain restaurants and hanging out at the mall.

Getting lost on the way to AAA and then ordering Trip Ticks that will take us to opposite coasts.

Staying up until 4 am every night.

Hanging out on my rarely-used patio furniture so that she could smoke and we could talk. Mostly about "moys" (Nikki's word for guys who are chronologically men, but still behave like boys.)

***

When she left this morning I walked back into the house and felt how empty it was and it was that much easier to put things in boxes. Tonight I had dinner at Rebecca's with Laura and Amanda and Tim and Brooke and we talked about our ultimate deal-breakers with men and then about religion. After the group broke up I went to Laura's to pick up the things that she has been collecting from my house over the past two or three years. CDs (how have I lived without my copy of Standing by the Sea for well over a year?!), my boxed set of the My-So-Called-Life DVDs and lots of books--most of them about bibliography. Rebecca left us there, and when the door closed I started crying, because I thought she was mad at me. She came running back in the door 15 minutes later, worried that I was mad and her and telling me that she'd gone back to her place and cried while she did the dishes.

We sat at Cafe Laura and they smoked and we talked about marriage pacts and how my lack of boundaries sometimes causes me to be rude. And Rebecca said, "When people know you are leaving, they feel urgency to show you how they really feel about you."

Feasting and fasting. Living that is more vibrant on the one hand, and deeper on the other. Within two months I'll be living in ordinary time again and it will be different, infused with more meaning and wisdom (I hope) because of this time.

Thanks A Lot. No, I Mean It. Thanks.

No Qwanty. Other people don't know about my weird Hogan's Heroes fetish. But thank you for mentioning it in front of my vast readership. Because that is so something that I wanted everyone to know about.

For clarification, I had a crush on that guy when I was about 6, and it was LONG before I knew about his whole porn connection. Now I feel appropriately grossed out by him.

But it is true that I have a thing about the film Pi and, really, any film where there is footage of a man shaving his head (as heartbreaking as the scene is, I also think that Luke Wilson's suicide attempt scene in The Royal Tenenbaums is hot).

I don't know where this comes from. I realize that it is disturbing. I also am not sure how this fits in with/conflicts with the problem with men's grooming. Maybe head-shaving seems uber-masculine to me. That's got to be it. You have to be a real man to take a razor to your head.

The John Malkovich thing I can neither confirm nor deny.

Tender Austin Thoughts

Tonight, for the second night in a row, I found myself at Rio Rita's at 1:45, vodka tonic in hand. No one really plans for that sort of thing, but there were several jokes made (at my expense) about how this might where to find me every night for the next three weeks.

What I realized, joking aside, is there are a few things that I truly would like to import to Portland when I leave Austin. The list isn't long, but these are the things that I wish I could take with me:

1) Rio Rita's.

2) Flightpath.

3) The HRC reading room.

4) Breakfast tacos.

5) Rebecca and Laura.

6) Gus and his family.

7) My pool.

Knowing that you are leaving someplace for good--even if you sort of hate that place--does make the sweet things all the sweeter.

"Hey you look like . . . "

There is a guy who is a regular at one of the two coffee shops where I spend the most time here in Austin. This guy looks exactly like Brad Garrett (yes, the guy from Everybody Loves Raymond). I'm super serious. Exactly. Only he's not so freakishly large. If you doubt my judgment in this matter, consider the fact that I brought this up during drinks with Rebecca and Rodney tonight and Rebecca started laughing and said that she immediately knew who I was talking about.

I saw this guy today and, as I was marveling at his likeness to Brad Garrett, I started thinking about the other "celebrity" look alikes I have known in my life. Qwanty can attest to both of them, and she will probably remember more details than I will---

The first is a person that we only knew as "The Nick Cave Guy" for a long time until one night at BOG when we actually had drinks with him. I'm sure that we were introduced to him, but I promptly forgot his given name, preferring instead to continue to call him "The Nick Cave Guy." (Oh, by the way, we called him that because of his shocking resemblance to Nick Cave.) We used to see this guy at BOG a lot, and I also used to run into him at the Flesh--oops, I mean Fresh Pot--on Hawthorne. Here is where my memory gets a little hazy. I want to say that we finally met him the night that we saw the Snifter Guy (some guy we used to see at the bar who we once thought, after we had both consumed many, many Black Butte Porters, looked like he should be smoking a cigar and drinking some sort of brandy or something out of a snifter. I also do not remember his non-descriptive name, but Qwanty may, since she had a little bit more of a relationship with him than I did. Also, in retrospect I think that the whole snifter/cigar thing had less to do with the way the Snifter Guy looked, and more to do with the fact that the first time we saw him he was sitting in a giant, overstuffed red velvet chair that sort of looked like a throne. But I digress.) drink 18 Olys out of the stubby bottles. One right after another.

Anyway, I think that Qwanty asked Snifter Guy about Nick Cave Guy and that he told us that Nick Cave Guy cultivated the look. The fact that he was capitalizing on the slight likeness he had naturally sort of disappointed both of us, since we wanted to believe that the look was completely organic. Then, as I recall, Snifter Guy invited Nick Cave Guy to sit with us. He told us all kinds of stuff about himself, but I don't remember any of it--except for a vague impression I have that he told us he was leaving town to do a program in documentary making at a jr. college in New Mexico. I think that the only reason I remember this is because it seemed like a giant, giant lie.

Guy number two was the "Chad Lowe Guy". (Do you notice a pattern? We favored descriptive nicknames for people that we didn't know well, but saw often. These nicknames almost always followed the pattern "The ________ Guy". We also sometimes would decide that someone reminded us of someone else we knew, but with different intensity. So, for awhile, we could talk about Toddy--Qwanty's special friend--but we also had a "Todd Light", who was Toddy-like, but with a little less Todd, and "Todd Heavy", who was extra-saturated Todd. We actually knew this guy's name, but we preferred calling him "Todd Heavy". His real name was more ridiculous, if you can imagine that. Some people had unusual enough names to just be called by those--our bartender Kip, for example, and the Flesh Pot boys, Skip and Vinnie. Our other bartender, BLT, had a hybrid nickname. It was descriptive, but also included his real name. BLT stood for "Big Louisiana Tom". I don't think that needs explanation.) ANYWAY. The Chad Lowe Guy was someone that both Qwanty and I began seeing in high school. He sometimes showed up on the public bus, and sometimes at the mall (the two places that Qwanty and I frequented, along with the volunteer room at Sunnyside Kaiser Hospital, prior to turning 16). I don't have a lot to say about that guy, other than the fact that he was a dead ringer for Chad Lowe. Unfortunately this was the early 90s and I know that wherever this guy went he was constantly being stopped by people who said, "Do you know you look like that guy on the show with the actor who has Downs Syndrome? You know, the guy who has AIDS?" I mean, that isn't very auspicious, is it? (Although it is probably better than what he gets now, which I imagine is something like, "Do you know you look like that guy who was dumped by that horsey-looking chick who keeps winning Oscars?")

Which brings me to the point of this post--and I do totally have a point--why do all the guys I ever see looking like "celebrities" look like lame celebrities? For once, I'd like to meet some regular Joe who looks like Henry Rollins, or Jeremy Irons, or Val Kilmer, circa Real Genius. You know, some celeb who I actually think is hot? (Wow. That list took me a long time to come up with. Qwanty, who else do I like?)

***

(Totally Unrelated Thought) Also, Jennifer is always asking me what my favorite word is. But I can't ever think of something when I'm put on the spot like that. Then she reminds me that Ken's favorite word is "aluminum". But today I thought of one that I do really like--sarcophagus. It's a cool word. It is fun to say, and cool to look at--it looks a little bit like it should be a part of the body.

For You,

James: Thank you for mentioning Robert Culp. I don't think about him often enough.

J-Bro: Missed you before I left.

Some Occasional Reader: I thought that you would appreciate the fact that I went out for a drink tonight and ran into a friend who was wearing patchouli and he wrote down his number for me on a piece of paper that totally smells of it . . . I sort of smell of it too, because he hugged me. (It does linger, does it not?)

Congratulations to Mullins. Damn it. Is there anything that girl can't do? It's depressing for the rest of us who are wondering what we are doing with our lives . . .

Also, I suggest that all of you read Qwanty's blog about smelly boys and Tom Waits. As usual, she is brilliant and insightful. She's sort of preoccupied with her lady-parts these days, but she has good reason, so give her a break.

Mouths of Babes

Wow. I totally feel like I need to stop complaining about things. Especially weird things. I'm starting to sound neurotic. (I may, in fact, be neurotic, but I don't necessarily want to sound it!)

For a change of pace, I'll tell you the funniest thing that I have heard anyone say in a long time.

It goes like this:

One of the highlights of my trip home was a day at the Kah-Nee-Ta resort, which is on the Warm Springs Reservation, just on the other side of Mt. Hood from Portland. Summer days at Kah-Nee-Ta are a family tradition--my grandmother used to take us when we were kids, and now my mom and I take the kids of the next generation. We go early-ish in the morning with a giant packed lunch, and spend the entire day at the pool--which is huge and warm (from the springs) and in a natural basin, so that when you are in the pool itself, you are surrounded by high desert mountains on all sides. It is sunny there like 300 days a year, which is impressive in Oregon.

The pool complex is made up of three connected pools--the first is only about 3 feet deep, so that you can hang out in it with pretty young kids. The second is about 4/5 feet deep. There are two large water slides that feed into this part of the pool. It's a good place for just sort of hanging out, since most adults can touch the bottom, but are mostly covered by water. This is where there is a lot of teenage action--kids playing ball, and teen couples making out. (I mention this because it is almost pornographic. At one time I counted 7 different couples glued together. It was sort of disturbing.) The last pool is deep--11 feet, I think--and houses the serious swimmers.

We took my niece, the lovely lady E, and my cousin's three kids, (known to some as the M-clones). My cousin also came with us. Because there were so many of us, we were forced to take 2 cars. My mom drove Heath and his oldest boy. Since I already had the carseat in my car, I took E. and the youngest M (because they mostly just wanted to ride together. Those kids have a total mutual admiration society). I also took Miss M (the middle and only girl child), who I think wanted to hang out with me. Which is actually pretty flattering, since she is one of the coolest kids I know.

So, she was the one who made the HILARIOUS comment. We were driving, and she was telling me about a boy that she sort of likes (enough said, I don't want to give too much of her personal life away here. I'm exploiting her for the sake of the blog, but I don't want to exploit her.) Anyway, as we discussed her elementary school love life, she mentioned that she thought this boy liked her as well. I told her that this was not surprising to me, since she is a particularly beautiful and smart girl. Here was her response:

"Well, I am the second smartest girl in the class. K______ is the smartest. But she is like a genius."

I replied that I had a hard time believing that anyone outsmarted Miss M, but she quickly assured me that she was correct,

"No, really Kristin, she's the smartest." And then there was a pause. At which time Miss M added, without irony, "Of course, she did pee her pants in class a couple of times this year. But she is still a genius."

When I was done laughing, I told Miss M that I thought that peeing your pants in class automatically took you out of running for the smartest kid in the class, no matter what reading group you were in.

I also realized that I am now so old that I can't even remember the days when anyone peed accidentally in public, and where everyone knew about it. I vaguely remember someone throwing up on their desk in 3rd grade, and that being a big deal all year, but I don't even remember who it was. Only the sympathy I felt for the poor bastard.

As Miss M turned around to try to start some kind of game with the younger kids, I found myself thinking about how simple life is in elementary school. I felt a longing for that simplicity (not surprising, given the number of adult concerns that I'm struggling with right now).

And then I gave myself a mental slap. As miserable as job hunting, dating, real estate, moving, health concerns and everything else that goes along with being an adult may be, worrying about public wetting of oneself, or of others wetting themselves in public, is definitely worse. It's symbolic of the lack of control--real or perceived--you have as a kid. And as much as I hate making decisions on my own (and trust me friends, I DO hate that), I'd much rather have options than have to ask for a bathroom pass.

This is a Rant

I hate the TSA. And I don't care if someone from "Homeland Security" (don't even get me started on that freaking rhetoric) who is paid to do nothing but troll the internet for "dangerous" "anti-American" speech finds this and puts me on some sort of list or starts some kind of file. Because airport security in this country is COMPLETE bullshit.

I submit the following story, with digressions:

Today I flew back to Austin. It is my greatest desire to get through security without incident or without having to converse in any way with anyone who works for the TSA. So I go out of my way to travel clean--to wear simple and minimal clothing and shoes that slide off. To have only one carry-on with nothing that will raise any alarms. To have all my documentation at the ready. But I have some kind of security problem every time I fly. And it is always ridiculous.

Last time I flew was in March, when my Frontier flight was canceled and everyone on it was rerouted onto different airlines and I had to scramble to find someone to take my class and proctoring shift the next morning, and a trip that should have taken 6 hours ended up taking 24. But EVEN BETTER, since the TSA has a policy to flag any tickets that are purchased within 48 hours of a flight (or something like that) all of us, who had already been dicked over by our airline, were subjected to full searches of our persons and our carry-ons (and most likely our checked luggage too). But I had booked that flight 2 months in advance of the trip. The airline arranged my alternate flight. There is no way to override TSA policy in that situation? It has to happen all the time.

Anyway, I told you this was going to be full of digression. That is not the story I wanted to tell. It is just proof that The Man is always after me when I want to fly. And keep in mind, I do not want to fly to Austin anyway. So being hassled just adds injury to insult.

Here was the problem today: apparently my pants had too much metal on them. I set off the metal detector when I walked through it. Knowing that I didn't have any metal in my pockets or otherwise on my person, I told the guy that I thought it was the buttons and snaps on my pants. He told me that was impossible, and then asked me multiple times if I had anything in my pockets (NO, I told you, NO) and also multiple times if I had had a knee or hip replacement. (Jesus, I think I'd remember that.) So I had to submit to a full pat down thing. And I hate that. I'm not a real touchy girl. As many of you know, I'm not even a hugger with my closest friends, and I have been known to do some damage to the kidneys and/or the junk of guys that think that they can touch me in a crowd at a show. I sure as hell don't want to be felt up in public by some strange TSA worker--and, no, it does not help that they only have females search female passengers (I don't want to be touched by a woman TSA employee any more than I want to be touched by a man TSA employee), and, no, it doesn't make it better if you offer to do it in private. I. Don't. Want. Your. Hands. On. Me.

It was not pleasant the first time it happened at PDX this afternoon (and, by the way, it was my pants, idiot who told me that was impossible). But then--

My layover (because there is no such thing as a direct flight from Austin to Portland) was in San Jose. The San Jose airport has three separate concourses, which are in three separate buildings. I was flying in on Alaskan, but out on American, so I had to go from building "C" to building "A". Which I did. Without stopping. I did not get anything to eat. I did not stop in a restroom. I got off the plane and went directly to building A.

So then I had to go through security again. And, once again, I had a problem with security that wasn't my fault, but was due to the fact that San Jose has an outdated and impractical facility. I told the guy at the metal detector what had happened in Portland. I told him that I didn't stop anywhere between the first concourse and the second. I told him that he could look at my paperwork. That I really, really did not want to be searched again. But he informed me that he had to and that, after all, this was for my safety too and wasn't I pleased to know that airport security was so thorough? (The answer to this is no. Because I am of the belief that most of this crap is just for show. If someone wants to bring down another plane on American soil, I believe that they are going to find a way to do it. I think that security "policy" is completely reactionary, and therefore 99% ineffective at prevention. As such, I think that it's only purpose is to make stupid people feel safe. Some days I even feel sympathetic to that crank Alex Jones and might even agree that the only other possible purpose of these policies is to brainwash the American people into believing that they should give up their civil liberties in order for the government to "save" them from terrorists. But I usually only go that far on a day when two different TSA employees insist on touching my breasts in public. Oh yeah, and another thing. They tell you that they are only going to touch the inside of your thighs and your breasts with the back of their hands. Like that makes it less creepy and undesirable.)

Anyway, the second woman came to search me and I was less than cooperative. Actually, I think that I scared her. Because I was really, really pissed. She offered to take me into a private room and I told her that it was not necessary, that my problem was not that I was being searched in public but that she was touching me unnecessarily and I. Do. Not. Want. To. Be. Touched. Then she had the audacity to act like that was unreasonable of me.

Hey, and guess what? I didn't have anything dangerous on me. I didn't have any plans to disrupt or endanger any other passengers or employees of the airlines. I am not a member of any far right or left wing religious or political group (in fact, I think that you will find that I sort of shy away from group affiliation of any kind). I don't know a damn thing about chemistry. I'm not a drug mule. I, in fact, have never had any illegal substance in my hands ever.

It sucks. It's a violation. And it doesn't help keep anyone safe--especially not the twins.