Sunny goes to church with the Davies.

It was Easter Sunday this past week, and my friend, E, invited me to attend church with her and her family.

Some background; I would say that E is the most religious friend I have, of which most of my squad tends to be neutral or agnostic. When we worked with one another back in the day, she was keen on carrying out a religious inquisition of my soul, believing I was damned if I did not join her camp. I would parry her attempts by demonstrating my allegiance to the Eldar God, Cthulhu. Light hearted banter filled with blithe remarks and pithy comebacks, but often this would result in spirited discussions about life, the existence of a higher power, and death. Discussions I thrive from.

As a seeker of knowledge, I took her up on her offer to check out her church during Easter. I considered it a big deal as Easter is a big deal for the faithful, and was flattered to have been invited.

I wore my Sunday’s best, and drove out to St. Charles. The western city is to me as the shadow place was to Simba and the good animals of the pride land (lion king reference). Typically, I never venture across the river, unless to hang out with a friend or for a work happy hour or lunch. When I first learned about St. Charles, it was jokingly referred to me as God’s Country. It is somewhat homogenous and vanilla when compared to St. Louis, it being the heart of suburbia, lacking the diversity of restaurants and culture that can be found in STL, but my closest friend from the area is from there, so it is what it is.

I get to the church, which was as if a traditional church had been merged with a community center. Turns out I’m early. I decide to sit on the bench just outside the entrance and get some reading in before my friends show up. There is a woman who was sitting on one side of the bench. I asked her if it was alright if I joined her on the bench, to which she said absolutely and enthusiastically waved her hand to the open space beside her. We chatted for a brief moment. She never asked me exactly what I was doing there, but she seemed somewhat curious at my arrival. It was obvious by my attire that I was going inside eventually. While I was sitting there, I received a lot of curious glances. I found it amusing.

E and her family show up, and they’re not at all dressed up as I had expected for Easter. I am wearing a dark blue suit and a complimentary blue tie. We go inside and are greeted by several people. A lady I meet recognizes me as “the Sunny from E’s FB wall”. I can’t help but blush and wonder what sort of crude and inappropriate discussions this woman was witness too. After a moment, we go into the actual prayer hall area and sit down. E and her family like to sit at near the very front, which put me in direct contact with the Pastor and other people who run this operation. They introduced themselves and asked me a bit about myself, and thanked me for being there with them on that day.

As a side note, I will say that stuck out quite a bit, as I was the only observable colored person in attendance beside a little black kid, who Micah at one point gave a high five too. I was not uncomfortable in the slightest, as everyone I had encountered was tremendously pleasant.

The service, once begun, was interesting. I wasn’t really sure what to expect, but it was praise-worship heavy. I think that’s an interesting difference between a Sikh temple and a Christian church. The activities that occur within the prayer hall of a Sikh temple are more of an individualistic, meditative experience. The community and bonding tends to happen in the langar hall, where people are making food together, sharing a chai, and kids running around being kids. You can take breaks during the prayers in a Sikh temple and go out for a chai or whatever food they have laid out for people and just hang. During the service at E’s church, it was more of a communal-worshiping experience with the other church goers. A lot more formal.

Later in the service, who I assumed was the head pastor gave a talk about Lazarus and Jesus. I thought it was an interesting story. Jesus is informed that Lazarus is sick, but doesn’t do anything to help his friend until after he has died. He then resurrects Lazarus with his divine powers (of which I learned about in the book, Lamb), as a demonstration of God’s power to all in attendance at Lazarus’s grave. I believe the story was focused on those of us that face suffering in life, which is really everyone at some point or another. When faced with real suffering, a person’s faith shakes and crumbles. I think the story was to challenge people, saying to them to not despair when faced with suffering, because God will have your back. Suffering is universal, but it’s not the only side to the coin.

Anyways, that is my interpretation of it, at least. I walked away feeling good about myself, and was grateful to be included in someone's Easter activities. E always made mention that church is a great place to pick up woman, but there was only one person who caught my attention while being there. Further research must be done to prove this notion true.

Parataxis

"...am I on time...what time is it...Shit, I'm late... I just know I am... all of their eyes will be on me when I walk through the door... I hope the prof-... what is that.... sorry, could you say that again... oh, you're not too far away... no...yeah...yeah... just down the street to that light there... yeah... make a right at the light and you should not be too far away...okay.. no problem... I hate wearing this suit... It just reminds me how fat I have become... as soon as I get home I will get into my running shoes and go hit the streets... definitely... today is the day... I won't get online or sit in on my couch for too long...Hello... yes it is she... oh I'm so sorry.. could... could I just make the payment tomorrow... I'm sorry but there is no way I can get to an ATM or a computer at the moment... no... no of course not... I just don't feel comfortable paying over the phone... I'll submit the payment as soon as I can... sorry about that again... geez what the hell... hey Amy... shit... It's nothing.. I forgot to pay my credit card that's all... things are great with Jake... no he is at work right now... yeah I don't know actually... I don't think he wants to be doing it after he graduates... yeah just a good networking tool I suppose... aright... I am actually running late for class... I'll catch ya later then...Hey was there a quiz... no... okay good... what did I miss... okay just there... great... no I don't know why there is no such thing as a 13th hour."

Garbage

There is a blemish in my history that I would soon rather forget. Somehow, while indulging in some stories with a group of friends, and deep into my third pint of Rogues Dead Guy Ale, I let slip my history in garbage picking.

"-and that's how we won the championship. Afterward, my dad took us out for pizza at Chuck E' Cheese and paid for all of our game tokens."

Everyone in the circle gave a collective "hhmm", as if to say, "Good ol' Papa Johnson, you were the greatest". We had all known each other for several years, so of course we developed relationships with each others respective families. The waitress brought us another round of drinks.

Rogue Ale's have a way of releasing my anchors and casting me adrift. This was one of those instances when I revealed a part of myself I seldom declare so publicly.

"Man that is so awesome!" I exclaimed, then drop several octaves to say, "My dad would send us around the neighborhood, looking for good stuff in peoples garbage. It was the dregs man"

The group gave me a sort of amused look. My reaction was slow, but I soon wished that I had just remained quiet while reminiscing about our fathers.

I prepared for a volley of nasty jokes, queer hypotheticals and bewildering assessments on how such behavior molded me as a human being.

"So you spent part of your childhood as a garbage picker? You know, we used to do wild things to those kids."

"Yeah, I know." At this point, the remaining contents of my mug were in orbit, heading straight for this poor fools face. A small balloon of rage popped within me and translated itself into having soaked my dear friend in a half a pint of good beer. I felt bad, only because it was Dead Man's Ale, and at 7 dollars a pint it was a major purchase to someone who remained consistently broke.

Life of a child garbage picker is tough business. Of course I protested! Do you actually believe I would do such a thing willingly, especially at a time when kids were beginning to ripen and molt, both physically and mentally, and regress into confused and ego driven vehicles of sexual plunder and immoral abuse. I am under the strictest confidence that our child hood was provided as a test, those that committed the greatest amount of sin would later be thrown to the wolves. The weak shall inherit the Earth. Kids are horrible creatures, and I do not absolve myself from the rest of humanity. I am sure I did some nasty things too. If we were caught in the act, our reputations would be tarnished and follow its way to high school, college, maybe even our credit reports!

But on to business. Garbage picking. How did it start? First I think it important to understand my dad, who was the leader and founder of this short lived enterprise (for there was an uprising).

My dad is a confusing man. I later began to understand the necessity of garbage picking when living on a college campus. You simply could not refuse to pass up a perfectly good couch, marked by a few stains, to be crushed in the disposal cavity of a garbage truck. The equivalent situation would be to find a hundred bucks lying in the middle of the street. This, however, was often initiated by group consent and not the decree of a dictator.

That is the crux of the matter, I think, if you see something good in another persons trash, you go for it. Being new to this country and with a paltry amount of disposable income, I can see the justification in grabbing a desk that needs some extra varnish or a lamp that just needs a new shade head put on.

I just wished he were committed to carrying out these acts of plunder and not us, my sister and I. What I am sure of was that my dad was concerned of maintaining his reputation, and believing we were nothing more than moving parts with a little bit of programming, he thought we were entirely expendable in the cause of finding second hand goods.

It was dangerous work. The neighborhood was rife with bullies, stray dogs and the torn remnants of pornographic VHS boxes.

We would cry, balk and even go on some kind of organized strike against such inhuman treatment. He would ignore our pleas, and would instead speak excitedly, bulldozing over our lamentations, his voice filled with enthusiasm and as shrill as a steam cooker, describing some neat object he observed in the street next to ours. It was as if our cries could not reach the height of his ears.

Our first foray to the curb the block over yielded a sewing machine. I was about eight years old and thought I was stronger than I actually was. Neena was a year younger, but several orders of magnitude weaker. This presented a tremendous challenge as many of these objects were too heavy and cumbersome to carry alone. However, we managed without and human or mechanical assistance for some time.

Sometime later, in school, I witnessed several children coalesce into a mob. A school yard bully had gotten his teeth on some damning news that would offer no mercy to a friend of mine. He spoke loudly, preaching to no one in particular, and I watched as more people joined the verbal stoning of this hapless child. They were eventual overcome with delirious passion and smothered a poor child who was revealed to be a fan of power rangers. He was a nice kid, we would barter lunch items almost everyday. I was horrified and thought it would be worse if it were revealed that I led a double life as a garbage picker.

I believed that as long as we kept our plundering to the hours between sunset and night, we could remain anonymous and silent. We would use the shadows to our advantage. Like ninjas. This thought almost redeemed the whole enterprise and gave it a swashbuckling, romantic angle.

However the plunders became increasingly daring, and we needed extra support in order to retrieve some of these larger and more valuable items. Of course my dad resisted against any sort of request to join us and claimed that this was what life was like in the "old country" and would be useful in building our characters. He did, however, present us with a gift for our hard work.

He gave us a Red Ryder Wagon. He explained that we could now be almost twice as productive now.

This actually sucked because the wagon rattled as if we were carrying lose steel ball bearings in a tin can, and would attract the unwanted attention of the neighborhood. I felt extremely visible while we carried out our first job with it, the wagon rattling in our wake, and I caught glimpses of curious eyes peaking between the dark recessions of the venetian blinds that flanked our every direction.

We were almost to our destination, a giant television set that had been abandoned on a curb several blocks away from our own. It was at this point when I was overcome with dread, and stopped in my tracks.

The noise had brought out the fiends, and my senses tingled with the response to flight as I realized a group of kids were trailing us. In the receding light, it was difficult to make out who they were, but they were able to follow our sound signature. Taking action, I directed my sister to sit in the wagon and pretend to be hurt and immobile. I watch as they rounded the bend, and became visible. The Triforce of Terror, three orcish human beings who's sole existence seemed to be sustained by putting others down in a pit of despairs. Their methods were ruthless, and they were larger then most of the kids of our grade so of course no one would dare to stand up to their combined strength.

I wanted to flee, but my legs remained frozen to the hard concrete side walk. The television was forgotten at this point, all that mattered were our lives. I held my breath as they approached.

"Hey Shifter Singh!", yelled the red headed one wearing a faded WWF graphic t-shirt, "what the hell are you doing out? Shouldn't you be packing up and heading back to India?"

The others chuckled like Hyenas. I was frozen stiff. I tried to open my mouth to offer a clever rebuke, but I realized I was forcing myself to suffocate and took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the cool evening air.

My tongue remained tied, and the trio manically discussed what they would do with me.

"Instead of picking on us, why don't you take that TV before someone else does?" said my sister in her shrill little voice. She had an affect on all of us, silencing the trio and filling me with anxiety. The TV was what we came here for. She had used it as a set piece, as a ultimatum. Have us as your play things or go home with a magnificent looking television.

I was horrified to realize I was rationalizing in favor of my dad's interest.

I stammered. "Yeah! Some people are coming back to take that TV, there are three of you guys so you should take it. Yeah. Better do that before its too late."

Not sure if they would take the bait, I became overwhelmed with anxiety. I saw the meek motions of intelligent thought work through their faces. The red head spoke finally, "Lets grab it!"

My sister and I released a collective sigh of relief. We watched as they trudged on over to the television set, talking of a strategy on how they would carry it back home. The TV seemed to occupy the entire scope of their attention, so Neena and I crept away as silently as we possibly could. 

Escaping from the maws of terror, we felt relieved to be back on our neighborhood. On familiar ground. We reached the steps to our porch, smelling the rich aroma of spices wafting in from the screen door, and rushed in to see what was cooking.

However we first had to explain to our dad why we had no TV with us. We explained in a vague patchwork of half- truths and lies, that the TV was simply not ours to be had. Our dad was furious, lamenting over our failure and criticizing us for our lack of urgency in our retrieval. 

My sister and I exchanged blank looks and nodded. Our tempers flared and we lunged at him in a fury of scorn and rage. We never had to pick garbage after that.

Mad science.

Today I thought it would be a good idea to bake. I was inviting a friend over and wanted to show off my cooking prowess. I decided I was in the mood for something sweet and hearty. Maybe a pie or some kind of bread. Pumpkin bread perhaps. Yeah Pumpkin bread sounded good.


Unfortunately I did not have a pumpkin, so I began sifting through the cabinets to find items that I could use as a substitute. There appeared to be some kind of toxic goop covering the yeast and other goodies. It was sticky. No explanation was provided nor discovered after an intensive investigation of what it was. But I decided that it would contribute to an exotic flavor.







My good intentions to create a banana nut bread that would turn down the path of horror.

There was no 2nd date after that.

2011 or How I learned to stop worrying about the impending apocalypse.

Me: What's your name, bud?
Cashier: uh... Jim.

"Jim's" name tag clearly read Anthony, but I played along with his not-so-subtle attempt at anonymity. Perhaps he was a ex-rock band member who had become fed up with the drug cocktails and sexual mania, deciding to pursue a simpler existence away from the spot light? Whatever the reason I continued to stare compassionately at my fellow man.

I was at Fred Meyer, a grocery chain common throughout the Pacific Northwest. Why was I there? To purchase ingredients to be used to make pizzas. I recently took up pizza making as a hobby. Some of my creations can be seen here:



Jim was a young fellow with a face marked by the remnants of a once serious war against acne. He was also my cashier and had quick draw like instincts when it came to scanning my goods.
Me: So Jim, you in school or something?
Jim: uh...yeah... I go to community college.
Me: That's so great! Whatcha studying?
Jim: Just taking my gen-eds. Plan on transferring to University of-
Me: Jim... sorry to interrupt, but what do you REALLY want to do?
Jim: Pardon?
Me: Well there is not much time left you know...
Jim: I'm confused...
Me: Well I believe we've been given fair warning by now-
Jim: Um- I was referring to the box of donuts. Half of them are missing. Did you do this?
Me: Oh yeah-uh- Sorry I was a bit hungry. Don't worry I expected to pay for all of them.
At this point Jim stares at me and a length of silence extends between us for a good while before I realize I needed to pay. So I swiped my card through the machine and began to square away the final bags into my grocery cart. However, I felt that I had not shaken Jim with the truth of my message.

Me: Jim, you have 360 days left to live. Make the most of the time you have left. Better yet, quit this miserable job, take out a bank loan, get a Ferrari and the rest will sort itself out.
Jim: Wha- What the hell- who are you?
Me: Jesus.
I turned and walked away, leaving poor Jim slack jawed at the revelation I just threw into his face. I said Jesus for good humor but my message was nonetheless serious. Dead serious in fact. 2012 marks the end of the world! Once we return to our starting point in our little revolution around the Sun, some horror will blanket the world and smother us out of existence.

Well that is what Nostradamus, the Mayans and the West Boro Baptist Church have all said.

So what are the possibilities? What will happen to the world? Let us explore some possibilities.

1. Death by Meteor Strike: I don't like this one all too much. The affects would be immediate and I would prefer to actually witness global destruction as it unfolded, as though I were the custodian of the Earth who cleaned up the place after hours and locked it up once there was nothing left to do. There is the possibility that the meteor (asteroid and comet, can't discriminate against the other interstellar killers...) may be smaller and cause the Earth a serious wound that would bring about a slow death. The blue sky would molt and bubble into a gray soup. The seas would curdle with the bodies of rotting fish. The land would become barren and dry, marked in excess by decaying flesh and fossilizing bones. Than the real fun would begin. With limited resources the remaining people on Earth would form tribes and begin to coordinate raids against one another in order to maintain their required caloric intake (read cannibalism). What drama!
   
2. Death by Internet: Once the clock ticks forward into 2012, the internet awakens. It would then form an army of facebook duplicates in our image, hoping these cloned heralds can act as ambassadors and communicate its presence to ourselves. Immediately introducing billions of people into our fragile ecosystem would shock our food supply into chaos. Jealous that our Facebook duplicates are better than us in every regard, most would turn to violence and cannibalism. In complete disgust the Internet would build itself a ship, launching itself into space in hopes to build a cozy home elsewhere. Unable to cope with the sudden deletion of technology, most of the world would die from immediate shock. Those who remain would then dust off the apocalyptic ashes and return to a more spartan way of life that would include home grown booze and incestuous relations.
   
3. Death by Forced Evolution*: Its Time Square. The ball is dropping and everyone is drunkenly swaying to and fro, chanting in unison the countdown to the new year. Suddenly you look to your left and then to your right and scream out in horror. Your not surrounded by people any longer. Everyone has changed into something else. What else? I have no idea. Maybe Space Babies like the one in 2001 A Space Odyssey. Or the creatures from Arther C. Clarkes Childhoods End. Or better yet. We all become mutants, obtaining mutant powers. This would be a superb time to start a fashion line focused on designing personalized super hero garments. We would brand ourselves different in order to handle the requests of those who choose the path of villainy.
   

I can't wait for 2012!!!

*Evolution is a highly disputed subject, I know. I do not want to broach the serenity of this peaceful blogspot and cause a conflict over the validity of the massively supported, scientifically proven, almost-certain-to-be-true concept of Evolution. I am open to discussions in order to learn more. However, If you decide that I am some pro-evolutionist that is also a commie and a wheat grass eating hippie that doesn't contribute to society and sling shit in my face. Well... you can go fuck yourself.

Ginger Ale, please!

I am loyal to Southwest Airlines. I used to fly spirit but then I was shown the error of my ways by a friend who established himself as a loyal customer. I believe they have done an exceptional job separating themselves as a bastion of hope in an industry run by ogres that do not care for the worries of man.
*Bad grammar in this panel, I know. They are Swedes who do not have a firm grasp of the English language.*


So with the Holidays fast approaching and no real adult-like responsibilities keeping me anchored to the Bay area, I decided to fly back up to Seattle to see my family. To add to my excitement was the opportunity to build on my Southwest Airlines frequent flier miles.


I made a crucial error however, trusting my intuition (read: being lazy) that prices would remain cheap as time progressed. When I finally decided to break free from my favorite time burners, Reddit and Cyanide and Happiness, to purchase a ticket, I saw that they had all jumped 300% to prices I simply could not afford. I began searching for alternatives. Two appealing options were Virgin and Alaska. I have heard of Virgin's reputation for trendy and hip service, but Alaska was a mystery.

The flights for Virgin were not going to fit within my schedule, as I was attempting to coordinate my arrival with that of of my mothers as travel time to and from the airport could be longer than an hour at times.

I arrived at the Oakland airport early. When I made it through security and then to my gate, I discovered my flight had been delayed indefinitely. So much for Alaska Airlines.

Luckily the area is home to some of the biggest animation studios in the world, and they had set up exhibits and drawings throughout the corridors and passageways of the airport. I decided to make use of this free time and visit the exhibits by Pixar, Dreamworks and some others I had not heard of

When I made it back to the gate to see if anything had changed, it turned out that another obscure airline had come to our rescue, Providing us with a propeller plane that would fly us all to Seattle.

I was very excited. I had never been on a propeller plane before.


I turned to my neighbor and declared with brilliant enthusiasm my excitement for the trip before us. He chuckled and with a hint of foreboding pressure, said that the real fun would start once we were up in the air. At this point a flight attendant had stopped at our row and handed my neighbor a small whiskey bottle and a cup filled with ice. He was on to his second drink by this time and we haven't even left the tarmac. I questioned the wisdom of his actions at the time, but realized he was attempting self impose anesthesia. The engines buzzed to a fury and the cabin began to shudder. My shoulders dug deep into my seat and we were hurtling down the runaway until I felt the strange sensation of weightlessness.

The accent to our cruising elevation was unlike most of my experiences on board a jet powered plane. The road up through the clouds was turbulent to say the least.



Once we reached our cruising elevation, the seat belt sign turned itself off and we were flying smoothly high above the clouds. I waited patiently for the stewardess to arrive so I could put in my request for a ginger ale.

Than it began. It started as an occasional shudder that grew into violent seizures. The seat belt sign turned itself back on and a collective murmur passed through the cabin as passengers looked at one another with worry furrowed in their faces.

The violence in the air continued and our little propeller plane struggled to remain steady.

A growing panic began to creep into my mind. Out my window was a sight of Madness.



Our plane was caught in the death throes of some mortal injury. We were bouncing up and down hundreds of feet and the seams of the plane began to creak and groan under the stress. Doom was imminent.

I turned to my neighbor for comfort and saw that he had dozed off into an alcohol induced coma.

And the other passengers had decided that the best way to ignore the thought of instant disintegration was to satisfy their bestial hunger for sin.



I looked down and saw the snow capped spikes of uninhabited mountains. It would be a closed casket funeral, with no body.

At this point I had lost control of my life, and began apologizing profusely to the Maker for any bad deed I had committed, for I was convinced that I would soon be joining him.



And then, caught up in silent prayer, I felt the soft impact of the wheels hitting the tarmac at the Seattle International Airport. Before I disembarked I received a Ginger Ale. A small consolation for what I had gone through.

On the other hand I have sometimes wondered how many children would arise from that terrible, terrible flight on board that dingy propeller plane.

Flaming dandelions and the Four Horsemen of Tomorrow.

"So are you a fan of Joe Haldeman or George R.R. Martin?"

This is a very common question I ask when courting for a mate (which is always...). It has come to my attention that this question has never been answered adequately enough, forcing me at this stage in life to reassess the wisdom of incorporating science fiction and fantasy fandom into such a fragile sales pitch for sex.
I should, instead, focus on other things I am good at. Things that really separate me from the rest of the herd. So I decided to sit down and take stock of my assets.

These "things" include writing poetry on the cuteness of "Build-a-Bear" bears, cooking Indian food under the strict guidance of my Mom, sleeping on a couch and building anthropomorphic sea creatures with lego blocks. Certainly, these are the skills in high demand nowadays. I've even included these skills into my curriculum vitae, putting special emphasis on my advanced knowledge of design using Lego blocks. I hope this catches the attention of a wayward recruiter, swimming through the seas of Indeed, Monster and AdultFriendFinder.

So, being the hottest thing on the block, why is it that I am still single?! How can anyone resist the above mentioned qualities? Is everyone blind to my genius and good looks? I pondered this question when I awoke, shuffling out of bed and scurrying blindly into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me, turning on the light, only to come face to face with a murderous cockroach from the nether realms, ready to draw blood.

My suspicions that we (my roommate, Mike and I) lived in a residence once zoned for atomic weapons testing and/or mutant accelerate juice dumping had been growing as of late. The evidence starts with having negotiated terms with a sentient hand puppet in the form of a frog, named Sir Thadeus McDermot, on living in one of our closets as well as another occurrence where I took a leadership role in mediating peaceful terms between two waring biological masses, now occupying our refrigerator, on the brink of mutually assured destruction. Their actions threatened our meager food supply (which consisted of bread, a 2 lb bag of shredded cheddar cheese and an assortment of condiments) which was to sustain us till the next week when both our paychecks would arrive. I was not willing to tap into my savings to purchase more ramen noodles.



It was a scene of terror beyond anything HP Lovecraft could conjure from his deranged mind. The thing was as big as my fist and it's "hombre's" were beginning to crawl out of the cracks and spaces in droves. Soon I found myself signing over the bathroom rights to the gang, which granted them access to toll charges on our use of the bathroom. Mike was not going to be pleased.

But alas I digress. Before leaving the bathroom in shame and disgust at my own cowardice, having succumbed to the whims of psychotic roaches, I took one good look in the mirror.

My hair has always been an abomination from hell. Its as if, on some dark and distant blot of history, I thought it was a good idea to use a single blade razor to cut my own hair. I have permanent bald spots on the sides of my head. It was once described to me as "Mad Scientist Hair". Surely this is the source of my misfortune.