balding angrily

“The whale, the whale! Up helm, up helm! Oh, all ye sweet powers of air, now hug me close! Let not Starbuck—ye fools, the jaw! the jaw! Is this the end of all my bursting prayers? all my life–long fidelities? Oh, Ahab, Ahab, lo, thy work. Steady! helmsman, steady. Nay, nay! Up helm again! He turns to meet us! Oh, his unappeasable brow drives on towards one, whose duty tells him he cannot depart. My God, stand by me now!”

“Stand not by me, but stand under me, whoever you are that will now help Stubb; for Stubb, too, sticks here. I grin at thee, thou grinning whale! Who ever helped Stubb, or kept Stubb awake, but Stubb’s own unwinking eye? And now poor Stubb goes to bed upon a mattress that is all too soft; would it were stuffed with brushwood! I grin at thee, thou grinning whale! Look ye, sun, moon, and stars! I call ye assassins of as good a fellow as ever spouted up his ghost. For all that, I would yet ring glasses with ye, would ye but hand the cup! Oh, oh! oh, oh! thou grinning whale, but there’ll be plenty of gulping soon! Why fly ye not, O Ahab! For me, off shoes and jacket to it; let Stubb die in his drawers! A most mouldy and over salted death, though;—cherries! cherries! cherries! Oh, Flask, for one red cherry ere we die!”

“Cherries? I only wish that we were where they grow. Oh, Stubb, I hope my poor mother’s drawn my part–pay ere this; if not, few coppers will now come to her, for the voyage is up.”

From the ship’s bows, nearly all the seamen now hung inactive; hammers, bits of plank, lances, and harpoons, mechanically retained in their hands, just as they had darted from their various employments; all their enchanted eyes inten upon the whale, which from side to side strangely vibrating his predestinating head, sent a broad band of overspreading semicircular foam before him as he rushed. Retribution, swift vengeance, eternal malice were in his whole aspect, and spite of all that mortal man could do, the solid white buttress of his forehead smote the ship’s starboard bow, till men and timbers reeled. Some fell flat upon their faces. Like dislodged trucks, the heads of the harpooneers aloft shook on their bull–like necks. Through the breach, they heard the waters pour, as mountain torrents down a flume.

“The ship! The hearse!—the second hearse!” cried Ahab from the boat; “its wood could only be American!”

Diving beneath the settling ship, the whale ran quivering along its keel; but turning under water, swiftly shot to the surface again, far off the other bow, but within a few yards of Ahab’s boat, where, for a time, he lay quiescent.

“I turn my body from the sun. What ho, Tashtego! let me hear thy hammer. Oh! ye three unsurrendered spires of min; thou uncracked keel; and only god–bullied hull; thou firm deck, and haughty helm, and Pole–pointed prow,—death–glorious ship! must ye then perish, and without me? Am I cut off from the last fond pride of meanest shipwrecked captains? Oh, lonely death on lonely life! Oh, now I feel my topmost greatness lies in my topmost grief. Ho, ho! from all your furthest bounds, pour ye now in, ye bold billows of my whole foregone life, and top this one piled comber of my death! Towards thee I roll, thou all–destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee. Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool! and since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still chasing thee, though tied to thee, thou damned whale! Thus, I give up the spear!”

The harpoon was darted; the stricken whale flew forward; with igniting velocity the line ran through the groove;—ran foul. Ahab stooped to clear it; he did clear it; but the flying turn caught him round the neck, and voicelessly as Turkish mutes bowstring their victim, he was shot out of the boat, ere the crew knew he was gone. Next instant, the heavy eye–splice in the rope’s final end flew out of the stark–empty tub, knocked down an oarsman, and smiting the sea, disappeared in its depths.

Here’s another piece of fiction. Jerry and I are big fans of Miranda July, and I tried to emulate her with this one.

When Fidel Castro moved into the corner house, the big two-story, yellow-sided ranch, Derek and I rode our dirt bikes down there to have a look. Three huge moving trucks blocked traffic turning onto Sage, making neighbors go back, turn on Mesquite, Harwood, then again at the other end of Sage. The trucks were piled high with masses of blanket-wrapped furniture. As the mover’s unloaded, we hoped to see signs of a kid – a bunk bed, a bike, a basketball hoop. Heck we would’ve been happy to see a toy baby crib. But it was all serious stuff – dark wood, marble, tall mirrors.

Then we saw Fidel himself come out of the house and give some directions to some movers holding a heavy desk. He pointed, and they walked away. He shielded his eyes from the Texas summer sun and scanned the neighborhood, focusing on us hanging over the handles of our bikes.

He smiled and waved, and we waved back. Walking toward us, he called, “You kids thirsty? I got some cokes for the movers.” I’m sure Fidel sounded a lot more Cuban than that, but I can’t fake a Cuban accent. So, I can’t write one either.

Derek and I looked at each other and shrugged. “Sure!”

“Cool! I’ll bring ‘em out.” He disappeared inside his house and came back with two red cans with the familiar white swirl. Mom let me have Cokes, sure, but it was rare. And this was before kids couldn’t trust their neighbors; a new neighbor was an immediate friend.

After he gave us the Cokes, we popped the tops and took long, deep gulps. “Thank you, sir.” Derek was always the more polite one between the two of us, with his sirs and thank yous.

“Is this all for you or you got a family?”

Fidel looked around him with his hands on his hips as if to locate a wife and kids. “Nope. Just me. What about you kids? Where do you live?”

I pointed up the hill to the other end of Sage. “826. One house down from the corner. Derek lives across the street. He’s got a sister in high school. She baby sits us sometimes.”

“That so? And what’s your name?”

“I’m Alex. Everyone calls me Big Al.”

He held out his hand, and I shook it. “Nice to meet you, Big Al.” He withdrew his hand and put it back on his hip, smiling. “I’m Fidel.”

We didn’t know what to do with that; we hadn’t heard of Fidel as a name before. Derek pointed his bike toward the creek at the end of the street. “Well, we gotta go, sir. Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah. Nice to meet you.” Following Derek, I waved back at Fidel. “And thanks!”

We parked our bikes on the muddy shore of the creek, took our shoes off, and walked through the slow, cool water.

“Why do think he doesn’t have kids?” I turned to Derek. He shrugged.

“Dunno. Maybe he just hasn’t met the right woman. That’s what my mom says about my Uncle Jim. ‘Just hasn’t met the right woman.’”

A rock in the water caught my attention; it looked like a perfect throwing rock – three-sided, rounded corners, sized to sit snuggly in my palm. I picked it up and put it in my pocket.

“Yeah, but your Uncle Jim isn’t old like that guy. That guy’s got a long white beard.”

Derek shrugged again. “My dad says if I’m smart I won’t marry. Maybe he’s smart.”

I thought about that; it seemed logical. “Yeah, I bet that’s it.”

Derek gave me a sly, funny look and winked. Then he tackled me, pinning me to the mud, and wrestled the rock out of my pocket. He sprung up, and jumped around in rocky creek, throwing up huge splashes of muddy water. I got up, laughing.

“Give me back that rock!” I screamed through my laughs, and started chasing him.

He turned and yelled back, his voice bright and loud. “Gonna have to catch me!”

There has to be a better way to die than naked on your bathroom floor. Well, obviously there is. Probably 10,000 better ways. Running with the bulls. In the arms of a hot guy. Heck, I would have been happy to have died during a particularly nice wank. But naked on your bathroom floor? That tells the world that you were clumsy. You slipped and fell. Clumsy moron. Clumsy, naked moron.

Would I do it again? What do you mean would I do it again? Would I have taken a shower? Probably not. Or at least I would have watched my step getting out.

Oh! Would I live my life the same way? Of course I would have lived it differently. What a dumb question. Do you ask that of everyone that comes through here? I can’t imagine everyone’s waltzing through the gates going, “That was perfect! Wouldn’t change a thing!” And if there are those people, I don’t want to know them. In fact, you can write that on your little form there. “Does not want to be around people with no regrets.” Gah, can you imagine spending an eternity with a bunch of unbearably satisfied people? Makes me shiver.

No, please put me with the people that are just like me. You guys tortured me enough in life surrounding me with a bunch of differing opinions and different outlooks on life. It drove me crazy. All I wanted was a world where everyone agreed with me, and it seemed like at every turn someone was coming up to me and shoving their differences in my face. You know I used to fantasize about marrying another guy named Alex who looked just like me? Talked just like me? Same build? Same fashion sense? Yeah, of course you know. You’re you. But then you sent me this guy who was skinny and sweet and, well. Happy. It drove me out of my mind.

And the people he brought into my life? Chatty and friendly and nurturing and gentle? I could have done without all that, thankyouverymuch. If you’re sending me back down, please get it right.

No going back, eh? Well that’s good. Life was shit. Just as long as you put me with a bunch of me’s. And just as long as I get to have lots of sex.

I gotta say, that’s one thing you guys got right. Sex was awesome.

Sex with Jerry? It was awesome. I just said. Are you listening?

It was always a surprise. Like Easter baskets when I was a kid. I knew I was going to get treats. And I knew they would be delicious. And I knew there would be a lot of it. But I never knew EXACTLY what the treats were going to be. Sometimes there were solid chocolate bunnies. Sometimes there weren’t. Sometimes there were peanut butter eggs. Sometimes there were jellybeans. Sometimes not. Sometimes there was a totally new candy that had just come out. And sometimes there were hollow chocolate bunnies. You know, there’s something I gotta tell you. Those hollow chocolates were a real fuck you. A real donkey punch. You peel off the foil, and you see this huge bunny or Santa or whatever, and it’s HUGE, and, like, obviously full of chocolate. And you bite into it. And, like, nothing. Air. You bite into air. I hope you’re sending the inventor of hollow chocolate somewhere else because that is a mortal sin if there is such a thing.

Anyway that’s what sex was like. An Easter basket. Pretty damn familiar and predictable but just enough variation to keep it exciting.

Oh, I see what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to get me to say that I loved Jerry because of his differences. I put it to you that I would have loved him more had he been just like me.

No, no, no. The sex would have been BETTER.

Nah, ignore what I said before. Comparing sex to an Easter basket? That’s retarded. Believe me, the sex would have been better if he was just like me.

We’re done? That’s cool. Just point me to my area full of me’s, and I’ll be outta your hair.

But you just said no one goes back.

I thought you guys weren’t allowed to lie. Like that was a rule or something.

Fine. But don’t expect me to like it. And don’t expect me to be singing your praises down there. I’ll remember this. Mark my words.

If you run, bike, swim, you know that there is a point at which all that extra adrenaline gives you a great feeling. If you’re outside, the light looks more beautiful, the colors more vibrant, all the smells – even the fertilizer – smell better. If you’re inside, your fellow gym rats look better; you want to bone more of them than when you started.

I had been on the elliptical for twenty minutes, working at my peak heart rate for about fifteen minutes, and I glanced at a distant TV. Vanna White was doing a jig on Wheel of Fortune, and I looked away. Then, I thought, “Wait, what?” and I looked back.

She wasn’t doing a jig; she was stuttering mid-step.  See, there was a glitch in the satellite feed or whatever; the image was jogging back-and-forth over the same millisecond. For all you analog folks, it was like a record-skip, but twenty times faster. Vanna’s leg only moved about six inches through her stride. And it was a wide shot, so she was doing it backed by that giant glittering, sequined set. It was like watching a line dance as imagined by William Gibson.

I couldn’t look away; I just stared at Vanna endlessly repeating that instant of her life.

There’s another thing that happens when you’re heart rate soars. Time seems to go soooooo sloooooow. Because your mind is being told that your body is moving fast, it thinks that the rest of the world should move fast. So Vanna’s stutter-step seemed like it lasted for ten minutes. And I watched and watched, probably with drool running down my chin.

It would be nice to think that I had a cosmological/metaphysical breakthrough. Like, “Omigod. Aren’t we ALL repeating the same instant of our lives in alternate universes?” Or, “What if I’ve transcended and I’m now watching the world as The Observer?” Or, “Isn’t that just a metaphor for Vanna’s whole career: arrested letter-turn?”

Nope. I thought, “Whoa. Cool.”

And THAT’S why it’s called a runner’s high; sometimes, if you’re lucky, working out is like dropping a hit of acid.

So, it’s been a few weeks!  How ARE you?!

…

Oh, you know me. Always going and doing.

…

Skiing? Yeah. Yeah, that was fun.  Actually, it was snowboarding, but you know, you say tomato…

…

Did I TELL you?! I busted my head WIDE open. Brains everywhere.

…

No, not really, but a bearded, skiing hippy named Scott dragged me down the mountain in rickshaw/coffin situation.

…

And I had to remember the number 13. Look, Scott! I still remember it!  And I had to walk on my tiptoes forward and on my heels back.  Then the doctor tickled different parts of my body, like the arch of my foot and the webbing of my fingers. Very sexual and inappropriate for a doctor. But he was cute, so…you know.

…

I DID get caught in the airport on the way back.  WHO are you getting your information from?! Have you been talking to my niece? She IS a tattletale, that one.

…

Well, I’m just going to ignore the story of international intrigue that you just told, so I can tell mine.

…

I knew you’d understand.  You’re good people that way.

…

Twenty-six hours from the time we arrived at the airport until the time we left.

…

No, it was actually kind of fun.  We got to know our fellow passengers.

…

Well, no, we didn’t really.  We pretty much just talked about them and made snarky observations about them.  But it FELT like we got to know them.

…

The airline set us up.  I didn’t think they did that anymore.  I thought that was a relic of 70s, but apparently they still set stranded passengers up.  We stayed the night in a hotel on the airline…that is, the airline paid for our room.  Wouldn’t a hotel on an airline be funny?

…

I know. I KNOW! I AM funny.

…

ANYway, yeah. They set us up.  I ate nachos.  And sat in a bar full of tough-looking men. It was a bit like the bar scene in The Accused.  Jerry and I were afraid to look at each other sideways for fear of getting our asses kicked.

…

Oh, well. Okay. Go talk to Sandra. Nice talking to you.  Or should I say AT you. Ha Ha!

…

Yes, Yes. I am VERY funny.

…

Bye!

…

Now where IS that deLICious crab dip everyone’s talking about?

While I’m ripping-off more successful bloggers, I thought I’d rip-off the Grand Poobah, The Big Cheese, The Blogger Before There Were Blogs - Lore Sjöberg.  And I’m not just going to steal his format, I’m going to steal his CONTENT.  Take that, intellectual property laws!

• ass-in-face - Nothing says, “Love me unconditionally” like a winking brown-eye centimeters from your nose.  Like most cat behaviors, this one comes from your cat’s realization that you are not, at that moment, paying full attention to her.  You may be watching TV.  You may be doing a crossword puzzle.  You may be reading an article about the future of genetic science, wondering if someone’s going to invent a virus that will give you the ability to pee Mountain Dew, ‘cuz that would be really cool AND useful.  Whatever you’re doing, your cat will come to you, all affectionate-like and purring.  And you’ll think, “Aww, how sweet; she just wants a little rub.”  And she’ll nuzzle your face with her nose.  And you’ll scratch her back.  And she’ll arch her back and purr louder.  And it’ll be just adorable.  And then she’ll turn around with her tail proudly erect so that you’re involuntarily giving her a rectal exam. D
• pouncing - J & I found out last weekend that we probably have American Shorthairs.  According to Animal Planet, American Shorthairs are descendants of European Shorthairs that were brought over with the Pilgrims to rid the boats of mice.  American Shorthairs are supposedly excellent mousers.  All I know is that when I lay in the center of our bed and scratch the covers from underneath, one of our cats will LEAP over me to get to the scratching noise.  She’s like a mini-Michael Jordon with her hang-time.  Hopefully, as she gets older, she’ll start letting her tongue hang out.  And then I can set up a mini-basketball hoop on one side of the bed.  And I can buy her little kitty basketball shorts.  And she can have her own line of Nike shoes.  B+
• double eyelids - When I was I kid I used to stare at my cat for hours waiting for him to blink.  If I got to him when he was really drowsy, he would blink VERY slowly, so I could watch the inner eyelid slowly close before the outer eyelid.  It’s become a retread to say science fiction promised us rocket packs, flying cars, and teleportation by now.  You know what? They also promised us oculus doorways in spaceships.  Cats’ double eyelids are the closest we’ll get to oculus doorways, and that makes them awesome. A+
• curling in the lap - Again, you’re watching TV or writing on your blog, and your cat leaps into your lap, proceeding to knead your thigh like dough.  You stir your coffee, take a sip, and you’re just content to have a source of warmth and vibration close to your wang.  Then she curls up in a circle, and you stroke her back.  And you feel like a Don.  A+
• rum tum tugger - When I was in high school, I thought I had to love every musical, Cats included.  I bought the soundtrack and played it over-and-over, just like all my other musicals, but I did it begrudgingly.  After a few weeks of forcing myself to listen to both CDs from start to finish, I finally put “Memory” on repeat and ignored the rest.  Then my dad saw the touring show, and he said that I just HAD to see it.  That’s high praise from an ex-Marine.  Then this video started playing on VH1, and I honestly, well …  As a 15 year-old proto-gay living in Southern California, my conceptions of masculinity and femininity were wack.  I remember thinking, “Look, he’s getting all the chicks.  And he’s pretty tough.  If you offer him pheasant, he’d rather have grouse.  That’s straight-up gangsta.”  So, I started singing “The Rum Tum Tugger” around the house, and in another show of my mom’s complete obliviousness, she did nothing about it.  It wasn’t until 1995 when I saw Jeffrey that I realized that maybe, just maybe, “Cats” wasn’t all that.  Bryan Batt plays a singer/dancer who was in Cats because it was the only job he could get.  In the end - SPOILER ALERT! - his character dies; I read that as indictment of bad theater.  D

Oh. And to see a better piece on cats, go here.

Here’s the problem. Mom likes to say things but her tongue gets in the way, and I like to point out people’s faults.

I was 22 - just old enough to pretend that I could handle my liquor - and it was my sister’s birthday. Mom told Sister to choose any restaurant for her special birthday dinner. She chose Red Lobster.

Don’t get me wrong. I loves me some Red Lobster; their cheese biscuits are things of magnificent glory, but remember I was just old enough to play at sophistication. When I told Mom that Sister wanted Red Lobster - that she wanted to hand pick her lethargic protein item from a murky tank, a seafood ghetto - Mom gave me a look. Sister saw the look and said, “What? I want lobster!”

Acting as the designated gentleman, I held the front door for my family, confirmed that there was a wait, and took the drink orders. Mom and I had mixed drinks with enough alcohol in them to close our throats. It was as if our throats were doormen holding back of rowdy teenagers. And we, as the owners of the bar, had to pull the doormen aside to say, “Look. What’s the harm? Their money’s good.” Then when the teenagers get insde, they set fire to the DJ booth and rip the stuffing from the couch cushions. We had to will our throats to swallow. Sister had iced tea.

We enjoyed our meal for two reasons. Our waitress was exceptional, and Mom and I continued to swallow liver disease goodness from our glasses. When the waitress delivered the check I wanted to compliment her on her service.

“I just wanted to say that you did a wonderful job. Honestly. We had a wonderful time,” I said.

“Oh. I totally agree. Great job. Thank you so much,” Sister said.

Then as the waitress was clearing the last of the dishes Mom, waking from a stupor, lifted her head and said, “I just too had a good time.”

The waitress left, and I turned to Mom, closed one eye and said slowly, “You just too had good time?”

“I knew you were going to say something,” Mom said, growing red.

“I don’t know. I just thought you might want to explain what that statement means. Like JUST THEN, you had so good time? Or you had just so good time, in general?”

Mom made a pouty face and put her head down on the table with her arms and around her like a fort had the Spanish-American war been fought by salt and pepper shakers. The visible part of her head, the back, shook, and it took me a moment to realize that she was attempting to hide her laughter. Which started me laughing.

We sank in our seats, gasping and sputtering, and Sister looked at us in horror. The waitress came back to check on us, and turned on her heel when she saw the table was in a state of revolt.

Mom and I have apologized many times to Sister for that night.

Both fantabulastic and hurtsmyfeetandbrain. We stayed in Midtown, on the east side - across Times Square from the theaters and Hell’s Kitchen. So we always had to cross Times Square when we wanted to do something. This is bad. Times Square is just too overwhelming; I’m finding that I don’t do crowds and visual over-stimulation anymore. I think in high school I thrived on it, but now I can’t handle it. My brain gets all schizy and my sphincter clenches. The best times we had were in Lower Manhattan and on the West Side: Greenwich Village, SoHo, Chelsea, the West 40s. Even though those were still Manhattan it seemed like they were neighborly, inwardly-focused. One day we walked all the way from our hotel near Grand Central Station down to SoHo. We ate at a cool Mexican restaurant, I bought myself douche-wear (pre-torn jeans and tight knit shirts), and Jerry shopped galleries. He was a little disappointed in the galleries. He said that the galleries all held works by famous names. We were hoping to find more galleries with works from local artists. I guess that scene has moved to the Meat Packing District. Next time we’ll make it down there.

As usual we had some great meals. Our best were at Gotham Bar & Grill and Esca. We liked Esca a little bit better because it was a surprise to us. We were just strolling through the West 40s and we came across it. We shared a salt-crusted whole sea bass in olive oil. It was to die for. Our most relaxed-but-good was at Jack. Our biggest disappointment was at Serendipity 3. Don’t believe the Oprah-hype. When we weren’t feeling like interloping child-molesters due to the high female tween population, we were being assualted by Victorian kitzch. The frozen hot chocolate - their signature item, the confection that a Food Network star described as complex and rich - was nothing more than a Starbucks mocha frappuccino. Luckily Jerry fell for the hype instead of me. I enjoyed a delicious peanut butter sundae.

We saw Spring Awakening, Xanadu, and In the Heights. I enjoyed Spring Awakening and Xanadu the most. We sat in the front row, just off center during Spring Awakening. Jerry got sweat and spit on by the singers. We were close enough to see them cry, and we cried. It was just really intense. Xanadu was a fun, fun lark. Silly, stupid, old-time frivolity with Whoopie Goldberg doing a limited stint. In the Heights was good but the music wasn’t really to my tastes. The Heights is Washington Heights, which, according to the play, has a strong Hispanic population. The acting, singing, and dancing were all wonderful - the dancing especially - but I just couldn’t get into the Latin vibe of the music.

We walked a lot, as was our intention. Since I knew we were going to eat a lot, I wanted to maintain some semblance of health by walking. Consequently I was tired the whole time. Next time we’ll plan on eating less, walking less, and staying near NYU. That seemed to be the area that was central to all the places we liked the best. And we won’t be duped into Oprah’s recommendations.

We plan on gong to London early next year. I think I’m going to ask my doctor for an anti-anxiety medication. Hopefully that will help me to relax and enjoy myself more.

Jerry and I went to Avenue Q two weekends ago. If you haven’t heard of it, it’s a Broadway musical featuring cussing and sex-having puppets. We fell in love with the soundtrack when it came out and jumped at the chance to see the travelling version. So we walked in to the plaster sculpture-bedecked theater, and a group of four white-haired, smallish walker-operators sat behind us. Every time one of the puppets smoked a joint or assumed a mutually beneficial oral-pleasure position, we shrank into our seats thinking about our grandmas judging us.

In the midst of Avenue Q, when we weren’t shrinking into our seats, we were laughing loudly. And so was the girl next to us, who was the most straight-laced looking woman of thirty-two I’ve ever seen. The venue is in Fort Worth, and going to Fort Worth is just a strange experience. They have three world-class museums, a kickin’ downtown nightlife (which Dallas struggles to match), the Fort Worth Stock Show and Rodeo, and a population that skews grey. In Dallas, you’ll see lots of faux. In Fort Worth, you’ll see lots of mix - genuine mix.

When the skinny, straight-haired, severe woman sitting next to me turned to me, I was thinking, “Dallas Uptight.” Instead she turned out to be “Fort Worth Delightful.” At half-time she introduced herself to us, and in the second half she laughed loudly and jabbed me in the side with her elbow. Meanwhile, her boyfriend looked VEEEERY uncomfortable. That’s what you get when your girlfriend drags you to a musical with puppets doing it doggy-style. And then she spends her free moments talking the two queers next to her.

We’re going to New York for Labor Day, and we’re going to see Spring Awakening and eat expensive food. We’re going to miss our travel companions, Jen-An and Owen. They moved to Los Angeles and left us lonely.

Today I interviewed a church pastor for a piece I’m working on about a church - in case you didn’t get that. I recorded the interview on one of those iPod voice recording doo-hickeys in a large atrium space with lots of reverberations. I listened to the recording on my way back from the interview. Apparently 2:00 on a Thursday is the perfect time to vacuum concrete floors. Also apparently, contemporary Christian music has a lot of ticky-ticky drum beats. And thirdly apparently, this interviewer feels the need to apologize for everything he does.

“I’m sorry if I’m taking up too much of your time.”

“I’m sorry if that doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m sorry if I’m swooning from your cologne.”

The pastor was very attractive, and his scent drew me in. I kept edging closer to him on the couch. I guess they train you in seminary to ignore the gay guy batting his eye-lashes and sitting in your lap when you are extoling the virtues of your church.