Animated Prayer

Dear God,
Please take us away from Pinellas Park, Florida. I miss watching cartoons on Saturday morning. Ed, Edd and Eddie, Mucha Lucha!, Teen Titans. Those are my favorite cartoons. Thank you God for cartoons.

Why is everyone so angry, God? In church, Pastor Reynolds says we should love our brothers and respect our fellow man. But out here he's been so angry. I've heard some bad things about the husband of the lady in there, the lady who they've tied down and aren't feeding. That's a bad way to kill someone. Why are they killing her God? My mom won't tell me exactly what happened to her. She says "Pray for Terri honey. Just pray for Terri." And I am, but I don't know why, exactly.

I sure like my sleeveless t-shirt. Baby-blue is my favorite color. I wanted to get all my shirts in baby-blue, but my dad won't let me. He scolds me for saying baby-blue. "It's just blue." But I know it's baby-blue. I have a crayon the exact same color and it says baby-blue on the box. It's my favorite crayon too.

I like laying in the grass and looking up in the sky. The sky is baby-blue too. I pretend I'm flying. Flying far, far away. Dad says I play pretend too much. I asked him if praying and playing pretend were the same thing. He sent me to my room with no dinner.

Everyone is praying really hard now for Terri. God, why do people pray? It doesn't seem like much fun. There are people crying. People are saying your name over and over. Two days ago, Gramma passed out and the police had to help her get awake. The ambulance even showed up! That was really sweet. I wanted to ride in the ambulance, but my dad yelled at me. He said it was serious, and I needed to pray for Gramma and Terri now. Pray, pray, pray.

So I am. I don't know any of the other kids here. Well, except the Baileys. But they're in home-school and wear homemade clothes. No baby-blue there. Mom buys all our clothes at Wal-Mart. She lets me push the buggy. I love going to Wal-Mart! Mom laughs when I try on all the sunglasses and hats in the store. I'm so happy when she laughs. Not like this.

People press their hands together so tight that their fingers turn white! Dad said he's going to let me run in there with some water for Terri, but I told him I was scared. He didn't say anything, but I could tell he was mad at me, again...

I just found out Terri died. My mom is crying. Dad walked away and kicked over a trashcan. Everyone is yelling and the police are starting to tell everyone to leave. I think Gramma just fell down again.

Am I a sinner because I'm relieved? I hope not, but I just don't understand why we are here God. The sky is baby-blue this morning. If I pray hard enough I can hold Terri's hand and fly away with her into the baby-blue sky.

Hospice of Cards

Terri's angel will look down from whatever blessed paradise she's sitting in, and she'll witness the fall of Republican party. Her death circus has alienated the far Christian right (the Chrazies) against all the other Republicans (Chrazy-lite). This private issue played out on the floor of Congress has already driven a tremendous wedge, and the resulting political outcome of Terri's imminent passing couldn't be better.

Blue flowers will grow from the unfortunate grave of Ms. Schiavo.

Calls for help to Florida Governor Jeb Bush are met with "My hands are tied." So are your Presidential hopes Jeb.

For fucks sake, are we really considering a president named "Jeb"?

The Bush line resembes the "devolution of the fake-Texas billionaire", from upright and wearing a suit into a hunched, NASCAR hootin' redneck. I don't know where the Bush twins fit in there. Judging from the squinty, weirdly lascivious glances of "Daddy" and "Uncle Jeb", I'd bet these red-blooded, Southern boys could find a few positions.

Oops...I forgot, I can't mention the word "evolution". Let's call it the "de-creation of the fake-Texas billionaire".

Back to Ms. Schiavo, Jeb wishes there was something he could do. If given the chance, he'd roll Terri out in her bed at the 2008 Republican convention.

Terri would be done up in heavy makeup with teased Southern hair. The piggish goblins waving "Bush 2008" signs would launch into a frenzied orgy of cheers and "Oh, she's so pretty! She looks so happy. Thank God, Jeb saved her." I feel queasy.

Politicians are no longer kissing babies, they're kissing patients in vegetative states; the sunny kiss on an infant's cheek replaced with a filthy, public tongue raping. The Christian right gave up on kissing babies a long time ago. That's a fight they've lost too many times. And this one they've lost too. The hourglass keeps going.

Goodbye dear Terri and goodbye Republican solidarity.

Green with Envy

In fourth grade I was reprimanded for pinching Jonathan Palmer's bottom on St. Pattie's Day. Even worse, he was indeed wearing green. Beyond that, I've never cared much for St. Patrick or his high falootin' day. How do you invest oneself when the most important aspect of this weird little festif is the dressing in green.

Perhaps my nonchalance finds root because the fourth graders at Cherokee Elementary didn't comprehend the serious social and religious issues of this second tier holiday. For us, driving away snakes, eating nothing but potatoes and catching Lucky to get his charms weren't big signifiers on the list of what makes a mediocre holiday (Arbor Day, President's Day, Labor Day) an outstanding holiday (Christmas, Halloween, Easter). I just realized outstanding holidays don't need the word "day" in their title. Hmmm...

Perhaps we were too hyped up on green frosting from the cafeteria's delicious selection of shamrock shaped sugar cookies; so freakin' juiced our tiny rural minds couldn't grasp the importance of this emerald robed saint of Ireland running away snakes.

Which I absolutely must comment on. Look at him! What a diva! I could NOT imagine myself out there in the dirt chasing snakes wearing a white silk gown with a jade poncho and a golden underdress, not to mention all those layered scarves, faggy yellow shoes and that giant hat! Saint Patrick had some serious fashion chutzpah. I find myself a little jealous of his costume. I'll add that to my long list of sins.

Well, no worries. It would be hard enough promenading down the Gay Pride Parade wearing all that junk. Just imagine chasing snakes down fifth avenue too. Not that I haven't pursued my fair number of "anacondas" during that joyous day. Gay Pride, there's another outstanding holiday that doesn't rely on the word "day". Pass me the Irish whiskey. I'm on to something here.

Ok, I'll admit it. I'm not Catholic. Surprise. I'm quite pagan. And although St. Pattie apparently massacred pagans and druids and the Scottish in his religious quest against the snakes, I still find myself dutifully dressed in a green striped button down, olive silk tie and fuzzy, shamrock socks. Faith and begora, how queer!

Perhaps the easiest lesson the little fourth graders at Cherokee Elementary could have learned is whilst religions may fade into mythology, fashion is forever, baby. And St. Patty you better work while chasing those snakes!

Holy Rugby!

rugb The ball was out! I peeled off of the forwards and cut into the opposing team’s offense. The competitor ahead of me saw my barreling approach and feebly pitched the ball to his teammate, who ran past his poor throw, leaving the exposed ball floating in the air. It was a dandelion seed floating on the gentle October breeze.

Everything around me slowed into one timeless moment, an open expanse ahead, the rival team away from me. The ball begged to be plucked out of the air and carried down the pitch for a scoring try.

I imagined myself stealing the ball. Thundering down the field like a thoroughbred. Placing the ball in scoring territory, the entire game would stop and my teammates would flood onto the field. Cheering, they’d hoist me up onto their shoulders and I’d…

The ball fell to the ground. My legs gave out before I could catch it. I punctuated my lack of athleticism with a loud, “FUCK!” Was I truly that upset at my abilities? Or was I just being an attention whore for those on the sidelines? I cringe to admit it was a little of both. I continued to act like a pouting ninny, punching the field and at intermitted periods grunting like a baboon.

SINNER, REPENT THY SINS!

Perhaps I’m being too hard on myself. Every new relationship has a “getting to know you” period. I’m growing more accustomed to playing rugby. I’m also getting to know the follow-up rituals of a rugby match.

Following every game a boisterous drink up occurs in which the rival teams come together to sing bawdy songs and celebrate an afternoon of broken noses and sweaty man on man action. One such song, “Jesus Can’t Play Rugby”, is a particular favorite of mine. Everyone croons reasons why Jesus can’t play rugby (bloody thorns, heavy cross, etc). I stayed up late Friday night scribbling possible lyrics into my little blue notebook. Should your Jesus-ology be found pleasing then you are cheered to the heavens. Should you get booed, well…

CRUCIFIXION!

Due to our gay team’s triumphant win (Blue You Rock!), champagne was in abundance. After chugging a half bottle of bubbly, I stepped forward and offered my fantastic verse!

“Jesus can’t play rugby cause hippies don’t have health insurance!”

It certainly seemed like a good idea at the time. And I committed to that sucker as too! Sadly, it was either a stinky verse or I shouted over someone else’s singing. Either way I was punished.

The blurry faces around me resounded with a chorus of boos and burly men barking “Shoot the boot! Shoot the boot!” Usually a failed rugger is forced to guzzle from a stinky rugby cleat. In my case it was a cherry red fireman’s helmet. Pushed forward, I guzzled a fizzy fusion of bubbly champagne, black ale and light beer, half of which soaked my polyester leisure jacket the other half-liter soaked my gullet. I don’t remember much following.

“Don’t shpeak to me. I’m invishible.”

Apparently this was my new verse the entire ride home as concerned mates checked on my wellbeing. I intently concentrated on the back of my eyelids. A stop at a gas station resulted in a much needed Mary Kate (outside the bus thank you.) And more vomiting occurred at the rugby president’s swanky Chelsea apartment where the entire team, sans moi, engaged in more libations.

RESURRECTION!

Unconscious, I awoke from the dead to the “Hedwig” soundtrack for a bizarre little musical revue in front of my mates, before passing out again after vomiting one final time (inside the lavatory thank you…I think.)

Sunday morning after leaving a charitable person’s futon (Gox is gaseous oxygen FYI) I limped down the street. My hangover was a crown of thorns. I slumped into a train seat and grimaced as Saturday’s flashbacks mocked me.

Unfocused aggression, lack of technical skills, delusions of grandeur, growing team mentality, desired invishibility, showtunes; my cross feels heavier and heavier the more I analyze. Finding balance in any competitive sport is hard enough, but in gay rugby the stakes feel so much higher when I drag all my Luis Vuitton baggage onto the pitch. I brutally tackle a giant straight man and I giggle to myself, “Could I have played high school football instead of joining the drama club?”

Jesus Christ Superstar becomes the star quarterback until that next ball slips through my hands. But this time there’s no “Fuck!”, no pouting, ok maybe another Jesus lyric, but definitely no more cherry red fire helmets! All that’s left is a calm resolution to do better, plus all this damn running has made my calves look fabulous.

Praise Him!