Missing New Orleans

I love New Orleans. It's really one of the world's great cities, beautiful and historic and unique. I was on my way to move there when my van broke down in Dayton and due to strange circumstances I ended up living in Ohio for five years, but New Orleans was always on my mind. That city, along with San Francisco and Baltimore, are the only cities I thought I'd be happy settling down in, and I plan to do my graduate work at Tulane, if they'll have me.

Last year, when Hurricane Ivan came through, everyone was afraid that New Orleans would just wash away. The levees weren't in great shape, due mostly to the fact that the current government has slashed funding for the US Army Corps of Reserves, and there was real fear that the city couldn't survive. But it did, and when people gave similar warnings leading up to Katrina's landfall yesterday, I maybe wasn't as worried as I'd been last time. Still, it does leave a sort of sick feeling in your stomach. So, the first thing I did today was check the news to see what had happened to New Orleans. I was afraid I'd wake up today and it would be gone. But it was still there. The prophets of doom had exaggerated again. There was trouble, but the worst was over.

That was before the levees broke today, and now my beautiful city is destroyed. I've heard that in places the water is 20 feet deep, which I can't even imagine. The Red Cross says this will be the biggest relief effort in its history.

I don't even know what to say about all this. I guess I'm beartbroken, like everyone else who loves the town. All hope and love to the residents, and to the people of Mississippi and Alabama as well.

Resetting Myself

Katy’s gone now, having left last Wednesday. I didn’t want to put a long goodbye to her on this post, since I’ve talked so much about her going already, but I did add one to her page as a postscript. If you’d like to read it, it’s here.

* * * * * * *

Discovered something interesting the other day. I’m being trained to do Interlibrary Loans here at the Music Library, and though I’ve ordered things through the service before I’ve never actually used the system itself (in the Drinko Library, Circulation and ILL are two separate departments, but Music isn’t big enough to have special offices). Anyway, the ILL system uses OCLC, which probably doesn’t mean a damn thing to anyone reading this.

The interesting thing, though, is this: back in 1990, when I was working at the Dunbar Library at Wright State University in Dayton, I was on a project called the Union List. Now, this mind-numbing project involved creating an online database of every serial held by every college and university library in this country, along with several in Canada and overseas. And if I remember correctly, that database became OCLC after the project was finished. If I’m right, that would mean that I’m now working on a national system that I helped program 15 years ago. To me, that’s pretty damn cool, although it also makes me feel really old when my co-workers talk about how antiquated the system is.

* * * * * * *

Enough of that, though. As I explained in the last post, I’m perfectly aware that the title of this blog states that it is about bar culture, not library culture, and I need to get back to that.

Actually, since Katy left I haven’t spent much time in bars. I did go to Remedies on Thursday night, though. Ran into some friends there. Tyler and Jennifer were hanging out, and Stroud was working. I got extremely drunk, but I’m not sure how, ‘cause I didn’t drink any more (or at least, not much more) than I usually would on a night with well specials. Got wasted, though.

Suffered some injuries, and I don’t know how. There’s a heavy black bruise across my upper back and the backs of both arms, and some kind of injury to the wrist that apparently has led to broken blood vessels; when I woke up on Friday there was hardly any bruise at all, but by Saturday night subcutaneous blood had spread completely over my palm and the inside of my wrist and was moving onto the back of my hand via the space between thumb and forefinger.

The main thing is a big, ugly, impressive head wound. I don’t remember that at all. But really, it isn’t unusual with head injuries to forget the circumstances surrounding them, alcohol or no alcohol. In fact, I’m wondering if maybe it wasn’t so much the booze as a slight concussion on Thursday night. I don’t think I was unreasonable at the bar (someone will let me know if I was, I’m sure), but I definitely was trouble later.

I have a very vague impression of walking the streets of Huntington very late, not really sure where I was or what I was doing. I know I sat on someone’s porch and talked for a while, but I don’t know whose. I also know that I nearly got in a fight in front of one of the frat houses on Fifth Avenue, and the only thing I remember about that is some guy telling me that I was the one causing all the trouble, which isn’t like me. I’m not a violent person. In fact, I'm probably one of the least-dangerous people you'll ever meet.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure that there was no fight. If there was, it was a very unusual one, in that I apparently won it without throwing any punches (no injuries to face, ribs, or knuckles). I suppose that’s possible, if I had a stick or something, but you’d think I’d remember that, wouldn’t you? And even with a stick, could I have won a fight while that fucked up? I mean, who would let a staggering, concussive drunk take him out?

The injuries seem to me to be more consistent with a fall. Not a stumble, you understand, but a fall from some minor height, over a porch railing or something, onto my head. But as I say, I don’t know what happened, and I don’t suppose I ever will.

* * * * * * *

Anyway, I need to get my drinking back under control. It’s not only because of this incident on Thursday. My whole life has been getting out of control lately, and the parts of that that haven’t been actually caused by drinking have at least not been helped by it. I should just quit drinking; I know that, like every other alcoholic does, but I don’t want to, and don’t really believe I could if I did want to. So instead, I’m going to hold myself to one or two beers, once or twice a week. I do this occasionally; usually it…I don’t know, resets my system or whatever, and I’m okay again for a while.

I guess that last paragraph sounds kind of pathetic, the whole “don’t wanna, couldn’t if I did wanna” thing. That’s okay. Everyone who knows me, or who reads this post regularly, knows that I’m an alcoholic, and that I’m not ashamed of it. My great fear is that I might become a drunk, though…I can’t have that. (If you’re unaware of the distinction between drunks and alcoholics, but are interested, click here.) The main thing, the point of pride (such as it is) is that I can function as a normal human being in spite of my alcoholism, and lately that hasn’t been true. Outside of stupid, juvenile shit like Thursday night, my drinking has been affecting my work. I’ve never allowed that to happen before, and I’m not going to start now.

So, anyway, that’s part of why I haven’t had much to say on the bar culture front lately; haven’t been in bars much, and haven’t remembered much when I have been. But fear not, dear reader. The fact that I’m not drinking doesn’t mean that I won’t be in bars. Being in bars is what I do, after all; it’s essentially all I’ve ever done. And when I take my little breaks like this, I still go to bars. I just drink soda or orange juice while I’m there.

I was, in fact, in the Union on Saturday to see Mary Beth. I was there from 5:30 or thereabouts until a little after midnight (with a dinner break), and did very well. I had only two glasses of beer, from a communal pitcher. She and I were sitting with her boyfriend Nathan, as well as Mace, Stacy, Eric, Timmy, and someone whose name I believe was Kelly. They were playing a drinking game, and I joined in under protest, drinking Pepsi when I lost. Finally Mary Beth demanded I drink beer, but since I kept a low profile, that amounted to just over one glass, and then I went ahead and finished the second. So, I was reasonably well-behaved.

We’ll see how all this goes. You’ll all have to wish me luck with this, because it is never easy, but I’ve got some hopes, and maybe I can start putting myself back together again.

The Big Sleep

Okay, the long two-week Goodbye Extravaganza is finally over. Larry’s gone, Katy's gone from the Union and is leaving town in a couple of days, and Matt’s gone. He played a kind of farewell show at Giovanni’s last Saturday night, and pretty much everyone was there. Roy, Marvin, and Jason played with him. It was a good time.

For those that don’t live here, Matt used to be the bartender on Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday nights at Calamity Café. So, of course, a whole mess of Calamity folks showed up. Nice to see everybody again. Nikki came down with me, and the Baders shared our table (well, more accurately, we shared theirs; they were there first). Petey, Goldie, and Jack spent some time with us as well. And there were many others there…I can’t remember everyone, because I was pretty drunk. I got so drunk that I stormed the stage and sang backup on the band’s rendition of “Sympathy for the Devil.” That was fun.

Anyway, I nearly killed myself afterwards. See, it had been a long day. The filmmakers I work for were shooting an interview with Ken Hechler at the library, and they wanted me there. I left the house around 10:00 that morning, after only an hour or two of sleep. The interview lasted something like eight hours. My plan had been to leave the interview, go home for a nap, and then go to Giovanni’s, but since it was already 6:30 or so when I left the library, I knew that if I went to sleep I wouldn’t wake up in time for the show. So, instead, I went straight to the Union and started pumping liquor into my body, just to keep my energy up. Then I went from there to the show and split a couple of pitchers and some tequila with Nikki. I didn’t get home until about 4:00 the next morning.

By then of course Jeannie was frantic. I’d been gone for 18 hours, and she was dying to get out. And, since it had been daylight when I’d left that morning, I hadn’t left any lights on. So, I walked, drunk and exhausted, into a dark house possessed by a freaked-out cat, who immediately tripped me in her rush to the front door. I fell onto a small oak table that I’ve had for years, and the legs just splintered. One of the sharp leg segments caught me high in the chest on the way down. It lodged right on my collar-bone, with all the weight of my falling, 175-pound body on top of it. For just a fraction of a second (you know how everything slows down when something like this is happening) I was aware that, if the point dropped a bit, it could slip between my ribs and run me through the chest, just above my heart. Conversely, if it slipped up and in a bit, it could go through my throat. Fortunately, it grated on the bone, slipped up and out, and went back over my shoulder. So, I was in pain (still am, in fact), but it was nothing serious.

I just kinda lay there for a minute, reflecting on my good fortune and on how much I was gonna miss that little table (it saw a lot of good chess games in its time) and thinking how depressing it would be to die in that ridiculous way. I mean, I’ll die someday, just like everybody else, but I’d rather do it in such a fashion that I won’t get a Darwin Award.

Also, I would hate to have died on that particular night, because there are too many people who would have been happy to hear about it. I don’t mind if they’re happy I got hurt, though, because I’ll admit it’s pretty funny. If it had happened to you, I’d laugh.

* * * * * * *

Actually, it isn’t my plan to die by accident, anyway. I’ve always maintained the right to commit suicide. This isn’t a cry for help, by the way. I got no immediate plans in that direction. But I want to be the one to decide when my time has come, when I’ve lived long enough. I won’t do it out of despair; I intend for it to be a rational decision. Someday I’ll just say, “Well, that’s about it, then,” and it will be.

The universe is an awful big place, and it kind of keeps all of us on a string. We actually have control over very little in our everyday lives, but the leaving of those lives, at least, should be up to us. I certainly don’t want to leave myself at the mercy of fate or the whims of a capricious god, or whatever nameless force governs the world.

I like to think of my eventual suicide as a scream of defiance against an impersonal universe. Well, except that I’m not usually emotional enough to scream, really. More of a smirk of defiance. That’s more dignified, anyway. And if I'm still doing this blog, I promise to leave a very nice farewell for everyone, so be sure to check back in ten years or so.

In any event, I’ve always held that every man has a right to destroy himself in his own way. For example, I don’t hold junkies in contempt (though I do try to keep them away from my stuff), and even if I wasn’t an alcoholic I wouldn’t look down on those who are. They’ve found their own paths to destruction, and that’s nobody’s business but theirs.

* * * * * * *

Which brings us to my best friend. Actually, there are two people back home in Richmond to whom I usually refer as my “best friends.” One of them is Pancho, who I’ve written a little about. The other I guess will have to be anonymous under the circumstances, so we’ll call him “Ralph,” an inside joke that no one but us will ever get.

Anyway, Ralph’s been my best friend since I was twelve and he was thirteen. He lived with my family for a year when we were in high school, while his mom was having financial trouble. He and I shared apartments together off and on through our young adulthood. He was really a member of our family, and I always called his mom, Nancy, my “other Mama.”

It was Ralph that taught me to pitch and to play basketball and tennis. He’s a natural athlete; he was just excellent at every sport he picked up. He was a good enough basketball player when he was twenty that he could have started at shooting guard for all but a handful of the colleges in the country. Like me, though, he dropped out of high school, and the colleges never came calling.

We used to go to the tennis courts near his apartment, back when I was young and healthy. There was a swimming pool next to the courts. Even on the hottest days of the year we’d go down and play. We played all four grand slam events every day. The Australian Open was a one-set warm-up, then we’d play a best-of-three French Open, a best-of-five Wimbledon, and finally a grueling best-of-seven US Open. After every set we’d run and jump into the pool to cool off, then get right back out on the court. And after sundown we’d ditch the rackets, grab a basketball, and play all night. I wish I knew where all that energy came from.

The night my father died, I called Ralph to tell him the news. We’d known each other a long time already, of course, and since he’d never had a dad, my dad was basically his, too. Anyway, he and I share a trait (one of many) that when we’re really upset about something, we don’t usually want to talk about it. We just want to take our minds off it, and try to feel better. So, that night, he told me how sorry he was about Pop, and then we just sat on the phone and talked about basketball for eight hours or so. There’s no one in the world I know better, or who knows me better, or that I love more.

* * * * * * *

He’s had trouble with depression for a long time; it hasn’t been an easy life for him. It’s led him to trouble with drugs, as it does with many sufferers, and he’s spent a lot of time in jail and prison over the last ten years. And all of the trouble combined to ruin his marriage and cost him his two lovely children; his wife left him while he was in jail for trying to steal the kids some Christmas presents (a true story, that, no matter how much it sounds like Charles Dickens or Victor Hugo). To the best of my knowledge, he hasn’t seen them since. And his mother died recently, which left him sort of rudderless.

Anyway, he’s been out of jail since last spring, working hard and trying to stay clean and get his degree. He found God in prison, as they say, and was actually studying to be a minister the last time I talked to him.

He was talking about taking a Greyhound up here to visit when he could get some time off work and get a little money saved. Then I didn’t hear from him for a few days. Finally I called one night, and the phone was disconnected. Now, this is the phone at his grandmother’s house, and that number hasn’t changed since I’ve known him. Without that number, and with Nancy being gone, I had no idea how to get in touch with him. I was a little concerned, mostly because I thought maybe something had happened to his grandmother (she is, after all, something like 95 now). But I wasn’t too worried. I knew he’d get in touch with me eventually.

That was back in April. Now, understand that Ralph and I haven’t gone as much as two weeks without seeing, speaking to, or writing to each other in more than twenty years. No matter where I was living, no matter what hospital or jail he was in, no matter what else was going on in our lives, we always kept in careful contact with each other.

As time passed I got more and more nervous, but there was no way to reach him. I didn’t know any of his friends (he was always jealous of sharing me with other people), and I hadn’t been able to find his brother or grandmother in the phone book or any of the online phone directories. If anything had happened to him while Nancy was alive, she would have called me, but without her I just didn't know the rest of his family that well, didn't have any other numbers to call.

I couldn’t imagine that there was anything short of death that could keep him from calling or writing to me, and as the summer passed I became more and more convinced that he had finally gone over the edge and killed himself. As I say, I think everyone has a right to destroy himself, but that doesn’t make it much easier on those left behind. And I hate to think of someone driven to suicide by despair; I didn’t want that misery to be the last thing he’d ever known.

* * * * * * *

I finally found his brother, after a bit of damn good research (I won’t tell the whole story, but it was the equivalent of Indiana Jones finding the lost Ark of the Covenant), and put up with as many pleasantries as I could before asking how Ralph was doing.

“Well, I was afraid you’d ask that,” he said, as if I’d called for any other reason. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.” I caught my breath, steadied myself, and listened. “Ralph’s back in prison. He started getting back into old habits, and got picked up for something minor, only got a year for that, but he had a gun in the car when he was arrested.” In Virginia, possession of a firearm by a felon comes with an automatic five-year prison term, even if you aren’t using it in a crime, so he’s got six years ahead of him.

Anyway, when I heard that I actually laughed, which I think surprised him, but he understood. And I went to the Union and said to Mary Beth, “I’ve got some good news! My best friend is in prison!” I’m pretty sure that’s the first time I’ve ever said that…hell, it might be the first time anyone’s ever said it. But I mean, although prison isn’t wonderful, at least he’s alive, and I can write him. And I’m gonna, immediately I finish this thing tonight.

It’s easy, when you’re locked up, to believe that world has passed you by, that no one remembers you or cares what you’re thinking or feeling. Maybe for a lot of guys in prison that’s even true; that might be why some of them are there in the first place. But in his case it certainly isn’t. His family loves and misses him, and my family loves and misses him. And I love him, and I do care what he’s thinking and feeling, and I want him to know it. Whatever comfort there can be in that for him, I want him to have. I remember how important it was to me, on the various occasions I’ve been locked up, to hear from folks outside.

So, that’s gonna have to be it for tonight, brothers and sisters; I’ve got other and more important things to write. And if you guys know anyone in trouble whose life would be lightened a little by hearing from you, get to it, okay?

Badgered by the Born-Agains

Okay, I’ve been away awhile. I’ve been a little bit sick, which is extremely unusual for me. I always say that I never get sick, and it’s pretty nearly true. I’ve only been ill twice in my life (I don’t even catch colds). The first time was a particularly nasty bout of the flu back in 1997; I actually missed work because of it, the only time that’s ever happened. My fever was so high that I had hallucinations. The other time was back in December, when I had pneumonia.

Personally, I think the reason I don’t get sick is that I drink and smoke so much. It’s hard for whatever bugs are going around to survive in my system. I remember there was some terrific virus going around Richmond in about ’87 or ’88. My family, and my friend Randy’s family, were laid up for about two weeks. We stayed healthy, and basically had to take care of everyone. Just as they were getting better, he and I started to show some symptoms of the disease. So we figured, if we’re gonna be stuck in bed for two weeks, we should have one last party to celebrate our health while we’ve still got it. We drank several beers and an entire fifth of vodka apiece, got stupid blind drunk, and woke up the next morning with fantastic hangovers, but the virus was dead. We never did get sick.

Anyway, apparently once you’ve had pneumonia it comes back really easily, and mine seems to have done just that. I’m pretty pissed off about it; my chest feels like it’s full of wet concrete, and it’s hard for me to sleep, ‘cause I have to sleep sitting up (when I lie down, I cough too much). Last time I had this stuff, the congestion in my chest lasted four months, and I’m not looking forward to not being able to breathe until Thanksgiving. But, there’s nothing to be done about it, I guess.

So, basically I spend twelve hours in bed to get four or five hours of sleep, and I only get up to go to work. I haven’t done anything for the last two weeks except work and sleep (or try to). And that’s why I haven’t written anything. Sorry.

Also I'm sort of awash in self-loathing. I bet you didn't know that self-loathing is a side effect of pneumonia, but it is, for me anyway. I was raised to believe that spitting is a distinctly low-class activity, and I tend to look at people who spit on the sidewalk in the same way that you might look at someone who masterbates on street corners. But now, of course, I'm coughing up 18 gallons of phlegm a day, and frankly I'm having a lot of trouble living with myself because of it.

Being sick has made me bitchy recently. Well, I mean, I’m usually bitchy anyway, of course. Truth be told, I’ve been in a constant state of aggravation since about 1973 (Jesus goddamn that sumbitch Nixon!), but I’ve been bitchier than usual for the last couple of weeks. I’ll probably bitch a lot here, and if you don’t like it, fuck off. I never liked you, anyway.

* * * * * * *

Katy has set a date for leaving town. She’s gonna work through the 15th, which means I have only two more Mondays with her, and then I think she’s having a going-away party the Monday after that, and then she’s out. Very sad. I’m gonna miss her like crazy. I suppose I’ll get more work done on Mondays after she’s gone, though.

Her birthday was last night (Wednesday), and so we had basically a three-day party for her. We got quite drunk; this is the first time since I left Hank’s that I’ve been out drinking three nights in a row, and to tell you the truth, I’m out of practice. I feel like shit. I also spent way too much money. I think I’m down to like twenty bucks in the bank. It was a good time, though. Worth it, as spending time with Katy always is.

I guess that once she’s gone, I pretty much won’t hang out at all for a while, except for the occasional trip to Remedies for a bit of whiskey on breaks from work, and I’ll probably still do Trivia Night at the Union. It’ll save me money, anyway. But the cutbacks on my social life are starting to get to me.

I was too used to being in Hank’s every night, I guess, and I still haven’t completely adjusted to being isolated from everyone. You know, if you live a life that isn’t going anywhere in particular (as mine isn’t), you depend on various friendships to give your life meaning. Not having seen Brett and Tackett and the Baders and Christy and, especially, Beth Anne in so long is just killing me. I think, though, that it’s time I went back to Hank’s. I’ll probably go down either Tuesday or Thursday, say hello to Beth Anne, and see if any of my friends come ‘round. I can’t afford to go there like I used to, and I don’t really want to anyway, but it’ll be nice to stop in now and then. So, come out next week and see if I’m around!

* * * * * * *

As I say, we had a big Katy party that took up pretty much the first half of the week. Monday was a typical Monday, of course. Katy and Nikki and I just hung out and talked all night. Katy got a little bit drunk, which is unusual for her when she’s working, but it was two days before her birthday, after all. The new door guy (Travis) stuck around after closing, which is mildly irritating because it cuts into my Katy and Nikki time, but that’s okay, I guess. He was a bit drunk, too… Katy was feeling experimental. She kept inventing shooters and getting us to try them. You can get drunk fast that way.

We spent a big part of the after-last call conversation discussing whether or not there’s a God. Well, actually the three of them discussed it. I carefully avoided the conversation, which is probably just as well, because Katy and Nikki (the pro-God side of the argument) got pretty mad at Travis (anti-God). I just stayed real quiet.

Tuesday the three of us (Nikki, Katy and I) hung out together at the Union, which was pretty nice because they weren’t working, so I didn’t have to share them with anyone. Herbie even bought a round of shots to celebrate the birthday, but he refused to take a shot with us. Herbie doesn’t drink hard liquor very often, but you’d think he’d make an exception for the occasion.

After last call we went over to Nikki’s apartment and got even drunker. They were drinking beer, and I stopped at my place and grabbed a bottle of wine; and we shared a very small quantity of pot, the first I’ve had since Sheila and I got stoned at the Christmas party last year. Nikki played guitar and sang for us, some of her own songs, some Fleetwood Mac and Dave Matthews. I played a little bit, but I was rusty as shit, and with the illness I can’t sing very well anyway. Mostly we were just all goofy as all hell, really. I remember that Katy for some reason insisted that I feel Nikki’s breast. I’m not sure why. It was a very nice breast, by the way. I approve. I wasn’t allowed to fondle Katy, though… I guess she figured Justin would be mad. C’est la vie.

And then of course last night we played Trivia at the Union. Well, Katy and I did; Nikki had to work. We were terrible, by the way. We finished with zero points, because we had to bet it all on the last question and we didn’t know the answer, but even before that we sucked. A very embarrassing performance.

I’m soliciting recommendations for a new team name, by the way. I’ve gotten tired of calling myself “Make yer own goddamned cheese fries,” a reference to the fact that, though I haven’t worked at the Union since the end of January, people still try to order food from me when I go in there. But I haven’t been able to come up with anything.

See, the best team name every week gets a bonus point, and that extra point can come in handy. Now, Jimbo picks the winner of the bonus point, of course, and his taste runs a bit to the obscene. Unfortunately, I don’t really have a talent for coming up with offensive team names. Emily’s good at it, but since I’m playing against her it doesn’t seem right to ask for her help. Last night Katy and I were “I fucked the Olsen Twins before they were famous,” but I can’t use that every week, and it didn't win anyway. So, if you can think of something in really poor taste, let me know. If I use it, I’ll split the free beer with you. Well, if you live in Huntington, anyway. Right now, I’m leaning towards a slogan from a new shirt at T-shirt Hell: “Your sister’s hot, but your mom does that thing with her tongue…” But I don’t know. No hurry…I’ve got six more days to think about it.

* * * * * * *

Went to the cigarette store tonight. It’s at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Twentieth Street, right off campus. Since I smoke between three and four packs of cigarettes a day, I spend a lot of time over there. The problem with going there is that there’s a church across the street, one of those that has a signboard out front that they can put goofy messages on. Today’s message was “You think it’s hot here?—God.” (Well, there weren’t any italics, of course… they don’t know from italics on those signs.) I bet that if I was God, that kinda thing would piss me off. Don’t put words in my mouth, especially stupid ones.

I’m not God, though, obviously. Really, that’s probably for the best. I mean, I’d have a real nice world, of course. The temperature would never drop below sixty degrees, or get above eighty, unless I decided I was in the mood for a good snowstorm. There would be a little rain every day (I like the rain), and there’d be a lot more love and a lot less violence (although horror movies would still be big business), and there’d be enough of everything that no one would have to work very hard. Also, the NBA season would be year-round. Life would have a soundtrack; there’d be music all the time, everywhere, and everybody would hear what they wanted to hear. And there wouldn’t be any organized religion. People wouldn’t have to worship me, though it would be nice if they bought me dinner or a glass of scotch now and then. Maybe once in a while someone would pat me on the back and say, “Groovy world, God.” I’d be a God you could definitely have a personal relationship with.

But, if I was God, although the world would be a nicer place, there would be a lot fewer people in it. You may have gathered that I’m not a big fan of people, and if it was within my power to just bleep people out of existence, I’d do it all the time. I am definitely not the sort of person who should be trusted with life-and-death powers over anyone.

Anyway, this church has been through some pretty stupid signs in the four years I’ve lived here. Most of them are just obnoxious, like the one a few months ago that said “The Bible is the best TV guide.” I’ll tell you what, there’s nothing in the Bible about whether or not I should watch “The Daily Show,” and there sure as hell aren’t any showtimes listed.

Sometimes the signs are neat, though, in an ironic way. My favorite was the one that said, “The Bible is like a compass—it always points you in the right direction.” I had to stop and think about that one for a while. The first thing I thought was, well, that’s not true. A compass doesn’t point you in the right direction. It always points north. So, if north happens to be the right direction, okay then, but you can’t always go north. A compass doesn’t point you in the right direction; it just gives you enough information to be able to infer the right direction.

[Incidentally, does anyone know what a compass does at the poles? At the South Pole every direction is north; does a compass just spin around? And at the North Pole there is no north. That's as far north as you can go. What then?]

But then I thought, actually, that’s a pretty good parallel. The Bible doesn’t point you in the right direction, either. It gives you information, and from that information you infer the right direction (or what seems like the right direction if you happen to be Christian; since I’m not, I’d say taking direction from a two-thousand-year-old-book seems kinda dumb). It’s all a matter of interpretation. So, the sign was true, just not in the sense they meant it. I sent a letter to them about that, but nobody ever answered it.

The point is, the signs irritate the hell out of me, mostly I think because it seems like everyone’s always throwing their religion in my face. I’m kinda tired of people trying to save my soul at this point. If you want to be Christian, that’s your business, but leave me alone about it, okay?

And while I’ve got nothing against Christians in general, I really hate the people I call “born-agains.” You know these people. They sit in judgment of all wrongdoing except their own, and they know exactly who’s going to Hell and why. They generally believe that the Bible is literally true (I know several people who believe that the Earth is only 6,000 years old), which is odd, because most of them don’t know anything about the Bible. It has become clear to me over the years that the people who are most fervent about the Bible seem to be the ones who read it the least. They just believe what their preacher or parents or Sunday School teachers told them.

Born-agains tend to be creepy-conservative politically, of course. I don’t take their politics seriously, though. It’s pretty easy to demolish a member of the Religious Right in a political argument, because the Gospels are so very liberal. If you can quote your Scripture (and thanks to a very religious upbringing, I can) you can send a born-again home with his tail between his legs.

But they are insistent, and they’re bent on explaining to you why you’re going to Hell and how you can save yourself, and I’m sick of hearing it. I mean, at least once or twice a week someone bothers me about this (or they did when I was out more often). I’m over it, alright? I’ve heard it all before, and I’m not interested.

I explain this to them (when I can be bothered to respond at all) like this: My father, when I was young, actually was a preacher. He was a youth minister at a church in Powhatan Country (about an hour from Richmond) and later worked as a minister in the state prison system. Aside from being one of the smartest men I’ve ever met, he had a Masters degree in Philosophy. My mother is even more devoutly religious than my Dad was, and she’s got a Doctorate. My brother is a Doctor of Divinity, I think, or some high degree like that. My sister, who is working on her Masters, is a missionary who spends half of every year in overseas hot spots.

I tell the born-agains about my family, and then I say, “Look, I’ve got people standing in line to save me, and they’re all smarter, more thoughtful, and better-educated than you, and they all mean more to me than you do. In fact, compared to them, you’re actually kind of pathetic. What on Earth makes you think that anything you have to say matters to me?” That usually shuts ‘em up.

* * * * * * *

Okay, I guess that’s gonna have to be it for tonight. I’ve got to be back here in eight hours to catch up on the work I didn’t get done Wednesday, so I’d better get some sleep, or try to, anyway. Now that I’m beginning to recover somewhat, I hope I’ll be back to writing a new piece once or twice a week. Wish me luck.