Undercover operations
By Johnnie Carrier
Marriage is the only thing that can take good friends and turn them into people who fight over the bed covers as if they were Walter Houston and Humphrey Bogart wrestling over gold in the Sierra Mountains.
That's what it's all come down to in my house: Fighting over the covers on a damp spring night.
Most married folks, those with a sense of reality, fight over money -- how much they need to spend on the monthly bills while coming up short every month on the income part of the problem. It's an age-old problem that, when it really gets a good head of steam, can destroy a good relationship. But not in my house ...
Here's the scenario:
Howard Cosell: Hello sport fans and welcome to another fight of historic proportions here at the John James Carrier Arena. It's a pugilistic clash as old as time. In the red corner, weighing in at a number so big the Bank of America thought it was a bailout check, The Comeback Kid, the handsome adventurer. Yes friends, he's an underdog tonight -- mainly due to the fact that he has to wake up to his opponent tomorrow morning -- the challenger, Jumping Johnnie Carrier!
And in the blue corner, weighing in at a weight so secret that it will only be known by the coroner after she passes on, the World Champion Cover Stealer -- the hyphenated hot flash herself -- Dawn Luskin-Carrier.
Now the opponents are in the center of the ring, meeting with referee, Zelda the Wonder Pup, and she hopes this battle is a fast one because, like any good pup, she needs her beauty rest.
The only rule in this battle is no face punching -- a rule imposed after the Hyphenated Hot Flash laced Jumping Johnnie's jaw with a huge right cross during a mid-winter cold spell. ... The fighters shake hands and return to their neutral corners to await the starting bell.
Ding-Ding! And the fight is on. Jumping Johnnie takes the offensive and rolls away from his opponent, tucking his fair share of the covers under his impressive girth.
Screaming, "I hate when you do that!" the Hyphenated Hot Flash counters by tickling our bulky but sensitive hero. This move forces Jumping Johnnie to release those covers that he'll wish he had when he wakes up at 3 in the morning shivering like a junky on a Philadelphia street corner.
Rolling over to face his opponent, Jumping Johnnie tries reasoning by saying, "Please let me have my fair share of covers, or you'll be sleeping out on the front porch in a minute." That's something that hasn't happened since they both swore off the hard stuff 20 years ago. But the Hyphenated Hot Flash stays resolved, showing the spirit of a freedom fighter in the desert, only cleaner and not as hairy.
The Flash pulls the covers to her side of the bed with such force it blocks the air in Jumping Johnnie's windpipe. Near the point of blacking out due to a lack of oxygen, the underdog drags one of his toenails on the bottom of the champ's foot -- a move she has hated since that first night they shared a bed. But that was back in a time when the covers always ended up on the floor in a tangled mess, with no one really caring where the hell they were.
Mad after the old bottom of the foot tickle, the champ gets out of bed, swearing like no honest woman should, and starts bringing up the challenger's past mistakes and his mother's sanity (God rest her crazy soul).
Wishing she would leave his mom out of this, Johnnie cries, "She was a saint who just happened to be a little extravagant." "Extravagance," the hot flash kid counters, "is for the rich. She was crazy and you know it."
Jumping Johnnie makes a mental note for the rules committee to review: No mothers allowed in future contests.
Standing at the bottom of the bed, the Hyphenated Hot Flash tucks in the covers so tight that Jumping Johnnie feels like he's starring in a bondage film (again). But this old ploy won't float. As soon as she's done, he kicks out of that submission hold by doing that old dance known as The Worm.
Madder than the time when Jumping Johnnie told her that her skinny sister was "kind of hot," she rips off the covers, claiming the bed needs to be remade. This move sends Referee Zelda flying since she only weighs 7 pounds of dumb.
Friends, we have a real barn burner here tonight, with the only clear winner being Zelda, who, by the time the fight is over, is stretched out across the bed with all of the covers over her little furry frame.
Folks, I'll tell you like it is. Fighting over money in these tough times is not really necessary because no one has any. Nowadays, the real fight is in the bedrooms of America. It's a fight Jumping Johnnie won't have to worry about anymore tonight since he's now sleeping on the couch.
Johnnie Carrier is a freelance writer who once again froze all night long.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Refund, Please
Saturday,
Like nose hairs and like gas after eating a meal made with Manwich, taxes are a way of American life. Each year, Dawn and I do our civic duty by going to see our tax guy, Bob, from H & R Block, and we have a ball -- as long as we get a refund.
I don't get the whole tax process. Long forms, 1099s, W-2s -- they all remind me of the fact that I spent my four years of high school in a freshman math class. When it comes to math, taxes and anything else connected with adulthood, I find it best just to sit there looking pretty and being irrelevant.
But Dawn is grounded in the ways of adulthood. She's great at keeping our books -- as long as there is a profit. So, she's been handling all our financial affairs (I'll handle the other ones, thanks) ever since I gave up all credit cards. This was mainly because I view credit cards as free money to be spent on things I really don't need. Banks should have never given them to me, so it's their fault. They should never trust anyone who buys useless nuggets as pick-me-ups for sullen moods.
Which reminds me: That's how I got the "Greatest Legends of Pro Wrestling" DVD set. Learning that I have a lot in common with the Iron Sheik was heartwarming, but it unfortunately was not a tax write-off. Wait! It would be if I wrote about it like I just did (research for freelance work). Childlike hell, I'm a genius.
I hate this whole pay-your-taxes thing. But, like getting nitrous
oxide at the dentist, I make the best out of a bad situation by not taking it too seriously.
Dawn and I laugh and joke about how our hard-earned tax dollars went to purchase that dammed wheelchair Dick Cheney rode around in during Obama's inauguration. We're not bitter about that or anything. But we still can't believe that in the final moments of the Bush presidency some lame duck press secretary wanted us to think the vice president -- someone who has had 114 heart attacks -- hurt his back moving boxes out of his government-supplied home. I personally think he hurt his back whipping some undereducated guy from a temp agency (only because he couldn't shoot him).
Anyway, some people buy a computer program and do their taxes themselves. For me, that would be like doing my own brake job. Brakes, invasive medical procedures and taxes are best left for the professionals who know how to get the best results. I may live in the fantasy-filled country called Imagination, but I know the IRS is not something you want to play with. IRS people are what Johnny Paycheck described as "vampires in gray flannel suits." Not messing with the IRS is like not messing with the Mafia -- one of the many things they have in common.
Buying a computer program so I can do my own taxes? Not me. I'd rather get the home colonoscopy kit.
Here's another thing. By having others do our taxes, we have always gotten a refund. Big or small, it doesn't matter. All that matters is we don't have to pay any extra. Mainly because, as we all know, the IRS compounds interest hourly (something else it has in common with the Mafia).
In an effort to help you out the next time you have to do that yearly dance called the IRS Shuffle, here are a few tax tips I have learned over the years:
* Have your partner assume all the responsibility. Sitting there pretending you know what's going on is a lot easier than pretending you're really smart.
* After your tax preparer tells you something you don't understand, don't ask him to explain. Just ask, "Is that good or bad?" You'll be out of there in less than two hours.
* Bring a good attitude and a big slice of carrot cake. Who can tell you you're not getting a refund after all that?
* Don't lie about having more kids than you really do. They put you in jail for that. If they'll put Martha Stewart in jail, they will nail people like you and me to a cross of our own making.
* Remember, doing your taxes is like having the above-mentioned colonoscopy. The prep is a lot worse than the event itself. Of course, they give you drugs for the colonoscopy, but H & R Block can't do everything.
Tax time: just what we need in the middle of winter. Thank God I'm pretty and not smart. Being smart is too much damn work. Just ask my wife!
Johnnie Carrier is a North Adams freelance writer who needs to find a tax loophole that will justify a trip to Florida.
Saturday,
Like nose hairs and like gas after eating a meal made with Manwich, taxes are a way of American life. Each year, Dawn and I do our civic duty by going to see our tax guy, Bob, from H & R Block, and we have a ball -- as long as we get a refund.
I don't get the whole tax process. Long forms, 1099s, W-2s -- they all remind me of the fact that I spent my four years of high school in a freshman math class. When it comes to math, taxes and anything else connected with adulthood, I find it best just to sit there looking pretty and being irrelevant.
But Dawn is grounded in the ways of adulthood. She's great at keeping our books -- as long as there is a profit. So, she's been handling all our financial affairs (I'll handle the other ones, thanks) ever since I gave up all credit cards. This was mainly because I view credit cards as free money to be spent on things I really don't need. Banks should have never given them to me, so it's their fault. They should never trust anyone who buys useless nuggets as pick-me-ups for sullen moods.
Which reminds me: That's how I got the "Greatest Legends of Pro Wrestling" DVD set. Learning that I have a lot in common with the Iron Sheik was heartwarming, but it unfortunately was not a tax write-off. Wait! It would be if I wrote about it like I just did (research for freelance work). Childlike hell, I'm a genius.
I hate this whole pay-your-taxes thing. But, like getting nitrous
oxide at the dentist, I make the best out of a bad situation by not taking it too seriously.
Dawn and I laugh and joke about how our hard-earned tax dollars went to purchase that dammed wheelchair Dick Cheney rode around in during Obama's inauguration. We're not bitter about that or anything. But we still can't believe that in the final moments of the Bush presidency some lame duck press secretary wanted us to think the vice president -- someone who has had 114 heart attacks -- hurt his back moving boxes out of his government-supplied home. I personally think he hurt his back whipping some undereducated guy from a temp agency (only because he couldn't shoot him).
Anyway, some people buy a computer program and do their taxes themselves. For me, that would be like doing my own brake job. Brakes, invasive medical procedures and taxes are best left for the professionals who know how to get the best results. I may live in the fantasy-filled country called Imagination, but I know the IRS is not something you want to play with. IRS people are what Johnny Paycheck described as "vampires in gray flannel suits." Not messing with the IRS is like not messing with the Mafia -- one of the many things they have in common.
Buying a computer program so I can do my own taxes? Not me. I'd rather get the home colonoscopy kit.
Here's another thing. By having others do our taxes, we have always gotten a refund. Big or small, it doesn't matter. All that matters is we don't have to pay any extra. Mainly because, as we all know, the IRS compounds interest hourly (something else it has in common with the Mafia).
In an effort to help you out the next time you have to do that yearly dance called the IRS Shuffle, here are a few tax tips I have learned over the years:
* Have your partner assume all the responsibility. Sitting there pretending you know what's going on is a lot easier than pretending you're really smart.
* After your tax preparer tells you something you don't understand, don't ask him to explain. Just ask, "Is that good or bad?" You'll be out of there in less than two hours.
* Bring a good attitude and a big slice of carrot cake. Who can tell you you're not getting a refund after all that?
* Don't lie about having more kids than you really do. They put you in jail for that. If they'll put Martha Stewart in jail, they will nail people like you and me to a cross of our own making.
* Remember, doing your taxes is like having the above-mentioned colonoscopy. The prep is a lot worse than the event itself. Of course, they give you drugs for the colonoscopy, but H & R Block can't do everything.
Tax time: just what we need in the middle of winter. Thank God I'm pretty and not smart. Being smart is too much damn work. Just ask my wife!
Johnnie Carrier is a North Adams freelance writer who needs to find a tax loophole that will justify a trip to Florida.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
CIRCUS BOY
The smell of the circus is a strange concoction of manure, spun sugar floss, mixed with popcorn, and for some reason I felt at home, so comfortable a feeling it gave me an overwhelming sense that my first day on the job as a circus clown was going to be something special, maybe not in the way I had planned but special just the same.
I stood in front of that huge, royal blue and circus-orange, banded big top scared and alone. Not knowing anyone yet, I waited for the opening whistle from the ringmaster indicating the start of the show, wearing my finest blue and gold checked baggy pants, a long sleeve, sun-bright, yellow shirt and a three-foot orange tie that was held on by an elastic strap that went around my neck and under my shirt collar, and every time I pulled on it my tongue tumbled out of my mouth, as if the two were connected.
Standing outside the stage entrance nervously tapping my leather yellow, blue, and red clown shoes, I decided to approach a bull hand from the elephant crew who was lighting a Phillip Morse Commander. His skin was leathered and wrinkled with nooks and crannies like the backside of the beast he was trained to horde. Of the 17 elephants and five bull hands, I approached the one who didn’t want to talk, and when he did I wished he didn’t.
“What’s the elephant’s name”? I asked to no reply.
“I heard that elephants like to be tapped instead of petted.” I said, trying to impress.
“What am I, Godamn Marlon Perkins or something? “Get out of here, funny face, or I’ll stab you”. Realizing I wasn’t in Kansas any more, I slithered back to the other First of May clown, Tim.
The term First of May comes from the 1800’s when shows would normally start to tour after the dirt roads dried out from the April showers. All rookies were called First of May’s. “You made the same mistake that I made. Ya see the circus is based on a caste system like in India. Bull men only talk to bull men. Aerialists only talk to other flyers, and clowns only talk to clowns. I’ve been here three months, and I only know the other four clowns, as everyone else seems to be so distant”, Tim said disillusioned.
Tim was a blonde-haired, Northern California kid who wore a clown face similar to mine. Both of us wore a flesh toned base, white half circles around the eyes, clown white around the mouth and red commas on our cheeks. Tim was young and scared like me and I had a sense he was OK.
SCHEEEEEE!!! The whistle blew. It was time for me to show the world that I was a great clown, to show them that I wasn’t just a birthday clown; I was as Cornel Wilde described in the movie, The Greatest Show on Earth, circus.
The clowns were next to last to enter the big top, behind the clowns came the elephants. Being the new kid, I was the last clown before Joe, the only male performing elephant in America. Male elephants are rare in the American circus because of their unpredictability, and like most men, they have one thing on their mind, but being the largest land animal with a three foot erection they do more than get into a bar fight over a woman, they wreck the town, crush a few police cars and maim just for her affections, kind of like a three ton version of John Hinkley.
Standing on top of Joe’s head was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She was a stunning redhead, and in her long, slender, painted fingers she held onto a dog leash. At the other end of that leash there was a gold and black spotted 300 pound leopard that didn’t look nice at all. It had a natural snarl, and an attitude, just as you would expect. With a nudge from my new friend, we started into the tent. “Good Luck!” Tim yelled to me.
Suddenly, from out of no where, I saw a golden flash over my left shoulder. I looked backwards and my redhead was standing there panic stricken, with an empty dog leash dangling. Looking under the stands, I saw the leopard hopping the gray metal bars that were laid out every five feet under the audience for support. The leopard was loose in the tent! I froze.
At the exclusive Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Clown College in Venice, Florida, they taught us everything I thought: elephant riding, how to take a slap, how to fall face first in to a vat of shaving cream but they didn’t teach us what to do when a snarling leopard was loose in the tent. Able to now move, I spun on my heels and walked out of the tent as fast as I could, where the back yard was empty with the voices of men shouting and women screaming, as I was shaking like a banker Okaying a border line mortgage application.
Hiding shamefully between two18 wheel trucks with Circus Vargas painted happily on their sides, I prayed like only one would pray when a leopard is loose in a circus tent. Starting another round of, “PLEASE…PLEASE… PLEASE GOD I’ll do anything…” I heard a snort, followed by a loud purr. Looking down, Tanya was rubbing up against me. The nasty looking leopard was in love with MY leg. She was docile and her purr sounded like a thousand house cats lying on a radiator in the middle of winter. From deep inside, I some how found the strength to pat her head, as I slowly scratched her ears I was finally able to gingerly slip to one knee where I was licked and slobbered over as if we were long lost friends.
“There she is, that First of May has her. Hey you guys, over here”. A dirty roustabout yelled.
“Nice job kid”. Circus owner Clifford Vargas said through his slightly gay-looking pencil-thin moustache.
I never told any one of what really happened that day because I was elevated into a position as a seasoned pro without ever having performed one second with the show. Oh, I got my chance that afternoon and evening, as we had two more shows to do that day and the next and the day after that. But I was now Circus Boy, a scared kid who happened to pick the worst place to hide…or was it.
The smell of the circus is a strange concoction of manure, spun sugar floss, mixed with popcorn, and for some reason I felt at home, so comfortable a feeling it gave me an overwhelming sense that my first day on the job as a circus clown was going to be something special, maybe not in the way I had planned but special just the same.
I stood in front of that huge, royal blue and circus-orange, banded big top scared and alone. Not knowing anyone yet, I waited for the opening whistle from the ringmaster indicating the start of the show, wearing my finest blue and gold checked baggy pants, a long sleeve, sun-bright, yellow shirt and a three-foot orange tie that was held on by an elastic strap that went around my neck and under my shirt collar, and every time I pulled on it my tongue tumbled out of my mouth, as if the two were connected.
Standing outside the stage entrance nervously tapping my leather yellow, blue, and red clown shoes, I decided to approach a bull hand from the elephant crew who was lighting a Phillip Morse Commander. His skin was leathered and wrinkled with nooks and crannies like the backside of the beast he was trained to horde. Of the 17 elephants and five bull hands, I approached the one who didn’t want to talk, and when he did I wished he didn’t.
“What’s the elephant’s name”? I asked to no reply.
“I heard that elephants like to be tapped instead of petted.” I said, trying to impress.
“What am I, Godamn Marlon Perkins or something? “Get out of here, funny face, or I’ll stab you”. Realizing I wasn’t in Kansas any more, I slithered back to the other First of May clown, Tim.
The term First of May comes from the 1800’s when shows would normally start to tour after the dirt roads dried out from the April showers. All rookies were called First of May’s. “You made the same mistake that I made. Ya see the circus is based on a caste system like in India. Bull men only talk to bull men. Aerialists only talk to other flyers, and clowns only talk to clowns. I’ve been here three months, and I only know the other four clowns, as everyone else seems to be so distant”, Tim said disillusioned.
Tim was a blonde-haired, Northern California kid who wore a clown face similar to mine. Both of us wore a flesh toned base, white half circles around the eyes, clown white around the mouth and red commas on our cheeks. Tim was young and scared like me and I had a sense he was OK.
SCHEEEEEE!!! The whistle blew. It was time for me to show the world that I was a great clown, to show them that I wasn’t just a birthday clown; I was as Cornel Wilde described in the movie, The Greatest Show on Earth, circus.
The clowns were next to last to enter the big top, behind the clowns came the elephants. Being the new kid, I was the last clown before Joe, the only male performing elephant in America. Male elephants are rare in the American circus because of their unpredictability, and like most men, they have one thing on their mind, but being the largest land animal with a three foot erection they do more than get into a bar fight over a woman, they wreck the town, crush a few police cars and maim just for her affections, kind of like a three ton version of John Hinkley.
Standing on top of Joe’s head was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She was a stunning redhead, and in her long, slender, painted fingers she held onto a dog leash. At the other end of that leash there was a gold and black spotted 300 pound leopard that didn’t look nice at all. It had a natural snarl, and an attitude, just as you would expect. With a nudge from my new friend, we started into the tent. “Good Luck!” Tim yelled to me.
Suddenly, from out of no where, I saw a golden flash over my left shoulder. I looked backwards and my redhead was standing there panic stricken, with an empty dog leash dangling. Looking under the stands, I saw the leopard hopping the gray metal bars that were laid out every five feet under the audience for support. The leopard was loose in the tent! I froze.
At the exclusive Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Clown College in Venice, Florida, they taught us everything I thought: elephant riding, how to take a slap, how to fall face first in to a vat of shaving cream but they didn’t teach us what to do when a snarling leopard was loose in the tent. Able to now move, I spun on my heels and walked out of the tent as fast as I could, where the back yard was empty with the voices of men shouting and women screaming, as I was shaking like a banker Okaying a border line mortgage application.
Hiding shamefully between two18 wheel trucks with Circus Vargas painted happily on their sides, I prayed like only one would pray when a leopard is loose in a circus tent. Starting another round of, “PLEASE…PLEASE… PLEASE GOD I’ll do anything…” I heard a snort, followed by a loud purr. Looking down, Tanya was rubbing up against me. The nasty looking leopard was in love with MY leg. She was docile and her purr sounded like a thousand house cats lying on a radiator in the middle of winter. From deep inside, I some how found the strength to pat her head, as I slowly scratched her ears I was finally able to gingerly slip to one knee where I was licked and slobbered over as if we were long lost friends.
“There she is, that First of May has her. Hey you guys, over here”. A dirty roustabout yelled.
“Nice job kid”. Circus owner Clifford Vargas said through his slightly gay-looking pencil-thin moustache.
I never told any one of what really happened that day because I was elevated into a position as a seasoned pro without ever having performed one second with the show. Oh, I got my chance that afternoon and evening, as we had two more shows to do that day and the next and the day after that. But I was now Circus Boy, a scared kid who happened to pick the worst place to hide…or was it.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
IN GOD WE TRUST?
By Johnnie Carrier
Sometimes I feel like the anti-Bing Crosby- sharing his movie title “Going My Way”, only we went in opposite directions. It started for me when I was a 22-year old young man, recently divorced and now living with another woman, and was told that I could no longer receive the sacrament of communion. Sure, my marriage was a mistake on my part. I was young and thought to be in love. But I wasn’t ready to take on the responsibility that comes with married life, and neither was my ex-wife. I realized this when I found her and my best friend, Jeff, busy in a certain biological ritual that was sure to end with someone screaming, “Oh Jesus”. Little did they think it would come from me, as I walked in, home for lunch early one day.
But in the eyes of the church, their transgression of adultery paled in comparison to my transgression of divorce. “Divorced people have no place receiving the Lord, son,” Father Weldon said with a wisp of a brogue. I asked this Barry Fitzgerald with a bad attitude to explain the purpose of organized religion. “How can you smite those of us for falling in love with someone who applies a trade similar to Mary Magdalene herself?” The silence and icy cold stare of my Jesuit Moriarty led me to ponder just what the church and organized religion were all about-for me.
Growing up in a working class Irish family that revolved around the fellowship of church life- a family in which the oldest studied proudly for the priesthood-was a lot of pressure for someone who always found our Sunday morning ritual a huge waste of time. I never understood any of its repetition. Week in, week out, year after year, the Bible acted as a calendar for those who didn’t get one free from their bank every December. With all the duplication of the church’s liturgy, I often thought that my house of worship looked at me as if I had lost my short-term memory in some pre-teen hockey accident.
Church never held my interest, until that one fateful day I discovered movie time. With the congregation gathered on a warming April morning, the sexton rolled a projector down the aisle to play a movie about the bishop’s charity. Instead of the usual boring sermon about what Paul left out of his first two letters to the Corinthians, they showed us a film. As the flick flickered, we were taught the proper way to ask our Protestant neighbors to support the Bishop’s Relief Fund, feeding starved third world villagers the corned beef and cabbage they so craved. Our church leaders showed our Catholic fathers how to solicit funds and how to do so without coveting their neighbors’ wives- who undoubtedly sat on the couch with heaving chests and liquid smiles, something Protestant women are famous for.
As the rest of the parishioners were engrossed in the educational and motivating movie, I slipped down under the pews, as a 6-year old was likely to do, just to look up the dresses of all my parents’ friends-mainly because, like Woody Allen, I never had a latency stage. It was the early 60’s, when Catholic women of the bourgeoisie wore garter belts that held up those black nylon stockings I’ve come to know and love. In the darkness of my forbidden sanctuary, I saw chubby inner thighs and shapely fat calves that only a cowboy could love. And those shoes! Black velvet pumps that were enhanced by spiky 2-inch heels- with the women’s toes tucked in tight, forming what appears to be in my mind’s eye as four little cleavages. To me, that was the best day I ever spent in church, so it wasn’t like they were losing an ecclesiastic wonder boy when they gave me the boot.
But what about the devout Catholics-those who really got something out of the worship? If Jesus were around today, would He ban the divorced from receiving his body and blood during communion, or would he be cool and give us heathens a free pass?
I was schooled by nuns, I thought to myself: sadistic, good smelling creatures, who could have fought themselves out of the toughest gin mills along the Barbary Coast. Now that I have been shamefully excommunicated, as if I were a 15th Century heretic, was I to forget the caring, compassion, and good penmanship they tried to beat into me. My lessons started out with a stinging ruler, slapped across the knuckles for abusing the Palmer method, and ending with a deadly thwack to the back of my head from Sister Mary Corporal Punishment’s set of janitorial keys fired from 5 pews back during the Stations of the Cross. This was because my friend at the time, the diminutive Red Garrety, pointed out that Jesus must have been a poor math student, which was the main reason he got nailed to a plus sign, his joked caused that forbidden mortal transgression of laughter in church. A sin worse than murder it appeared at the time. But in the name of charity, in the name of all of those who faced that same shoddy rough treatment, was that the best way to represent God on earth in an educational setting?
The same could be asked in regard to the numerous lawsuits hammering the Catholic Church over the repeated sexual abuse by certain priests upon the underage men of their congregation. Was this the will of God? And what was wrong with me, since I came out of the Catholic school system with my virtue intact? Was I an ugly child, unattractively walking around with my grammar- school milk mustache? What did those other poor unfortunates have that I didn’t? Not that I wanted the unwelcome advances from a priest-like sexual predator, but I would like to think I was at least cute enough to be considered.
The Church is built on the foundation that everyone is a sinner, and I never really had a problem with that principle. But was I guilty from the moment I was born, lathered with the stain of original sin? Legend has it that someone had to pay for the sin of free choice that Adam and Eve committed in the Garden of Eden, but to pin it on a newborn seems a little cold.
Even as a budding agnostic, dressed in my Kelly green school uniform, my thinking was that original sin was incredible bunk. I based this on the fact that I just got here, how the hell could I be in trouble already? Couldn’t I find all the things that church was suppose to give me within the depths of my own heart? Couldn’t I find the absolution needed for everlasting life within the goodness that I knew was in me? Was my refusal to abstain from consuming meat during every Lenten season since 1978 a venial or mortal sin? (Don’t laugh; I could be facing eternal damnation over a hot dog.)
For real Catholics, Lent is the period preceding Easter. It’s a time of self denial that represents the suffering the Lord endured during his last days on earth. So let me see if I get this. If give up candy, porn and liquor for a month, that represents getting savagely beaten by a bastard gang of ruthless Roman soldiers? Are my earthly sacrifices akin to being nailed to a cross by my arms and legs in front of Mother and my friends while begging forgiveness to my Father, the one who orchestrated all of this-just so he could show the world he loved us? Sounds like someone has a bit of an ego problem, if you ask me.
Still, let me see if I got this correct. He killed his only begotten son to show the world he cared? It’s funny: There is a guy in Texas on trial for doing the same thing but no one is claiming he’s the Almighty Father, he’s getting the chair. Needless to say, I left the church when Father Weldon asked me. I did so without a fight or worse yet, beseeching exoneration for marrying an immature woman who, for whatever reason slept around on me behind my back. I have been excommunicated as if I were Galileo or Martin Luther.
My image of God is not of a grandfatherly looking chap in a white robe, but of the brightest light you can imagine- a light I saw the last time I got insanely drunk 21 years ago- a light that told me to seek help, which I did and haven’t had a touch of the creature since. I go to the church of my God now-in the woods, the mountains, on a snowy hillside. While on my weekly fishing trips, I thank my God of Light for the gifts that have been bestowed upon me, for they are many. And I ask for the forgiveness and the strength to remove my shortcomings, for they are many, as well. There is no collection plate passed and no Sweepstakes tickets to buy for that same crazy quilt that was raffled off last year. There are no men dressed in robes, chanting, burning incense, or having cookies with old ladies afterwards. There is just me, with what little faith I can muster, hoping that I do his or her will. I don’t have the answers; I only have the questions. And all I know about God is that there is one; but what his will for me is I would never be so arrogant to say. This is what really separates me and my older brother- the priest. Ever the anti- Bing Crosby, I go my way, down a path that leads to the unknown that is God’s mansion on the hill.
By Johnnie Carrier
Sometimes I feel like the anti-Bing Crosby- sharing his movie title “Going My Way”, only we went in opposite directions. It started for me when I was a 22-year old young man, recently divorced and now living with another woman, and was told that I could no longer receive the sacrament of communion. Sure, my marriage was a mistake on my part. I was young and thought to be in love. But I wasn’t ready to take on the responsibility that comes with married life, and neither was my ex-wife. I realized this when I found her and my best friend, Jeff, busy in a certain biological ritual that was sure to end with someone screaming, “Oh Jesus”. Little did they think it would come from me, as I walked in, home for lunch early one day.
But in the eyes of the church, their transgression of adultery paled in comparison to my transgression of divorce. “Divorced people have no place receiving the Lord, son,” Father Weldon said with a wisp of a brogue. I asked this Barry Fitzgerald with a bad attitude to explain the purpose of organized religion. “How can you smite those of us for falling in love with someone who applies a trade similar to Mary Magdalene herself?” The silence and icy cold stare of my Jesuit Moriarty led me to ponder just what the church and organized religion were all about-for me.
Growing up in a working class Irish family that revolved around the fellowship of church life- a family in which the oldest studied proudly for the priesthood-was a lot of pressure for someone who always found our Sunday morning ritual a huge waste of time. I never understood any of its repetition. Week in, week out, year after year, the Bible acted as a calendar for those who didn’t get one free from their bank every December. With all the duplication of the church’s liturgy, I often thought that my house of worship looked at me as if I had lost my short-term memory in some pre-teen hockey accident.
Church never held my interest, until that one fateful day I discovered movie time. With the congregation gathered on a warming April morning, the sexton rolled a projector down the aisle to play a movie about the bishop’s charity. Instead of the usual boring sermon about what Paul left out of his first two letters to the Corinthians, they showed us a film. As the flick flickered, we were taught the proper way to ask our Protestant neighbors to support the Bishop’s Relief Fund, feeding starved third world villagers the corned beef and cabbage they so craved. Our church leaders showed our Catholic fathers how to solicit funds and how to do so without coveting their neighbors’ wives- who undoubtedly sat on the couch with heaving chests and liquid smiles, something Protestant women are famous for.
As the rest of the parishioners were engrossed in the educational and motivating movie, I slipped down under the pews, as a 6-year old was likely to do, just to look up the dresses of all my parents’ friends-mainly because, like Woody Allen, I never had a latency stage. It was the early 60’s, when Catholic women of the bourgeoisie wore garter belts that held up those black nylon stockings I’ve come to know and love. In the darkness of my forbidden sanctuary, I saw chubby inner thighs and shapely fat calves that only a cowboy could love. And those shoes! Black velvet pumps that were enhanced by spiky 2-inch heels- with the women’s toes tucked in tight, forming what appears to be in my mind’s eye as four little cleavages. To me, that was the best day I ever spent in church, so it wasn’t like they were losing an ecclesiastic wonder boy when they gave me the boot.
But what about the devout Catholics-those who really got something out of the worship? If Jesus were around today, would He ban the divorced from receiving his body and blood during communion, or would he be cool and give us heathens a free pass?
I was schooled by nuns, I thought to myself: sadistic, good smelling creatures, who could have fought themselves out of the toughest gin mills along the Barbary Coast. Now that I have been shamefully excommunicated, as if I were a 15th Century heretic, was I to forget the caring, compassion, and good penmanship they tried to beat into me. My lessons started out with a stinging ruler, slapped across the knuckles for abusing the Palmer method, and ending with a deadly thwack to the back of my head from Sister Mary Corporal Punishment’s set of janitorial keys fired from 5 pews back during the Stations of the Cross. This was because my friend at the time, the diminutive Red Garrety, pointed out that Jesus must have been a poor math student, which was the main reason he got nailed to a plus sign, his joked caused that forbidden mortal transgression of laughter in church. A sin worse than murder it appeared at the time. But in the name of charity, in the name of all of those who faced that same shoddy rough treatment, was that the best way to represent God on earth in an educational setting?
The same could be asked in regard to the numerous lawsuits hammering the Catholic Church over the repeated sexual abuse by certain priests upon the underage men of their congregation. Was this the will of God? And what was wrong with me, since I came out of the Catholic school system with my virtue intact? Was I an ugly child, unattractively walking around with my grammar- school milk mustache? What did those other poor unfortunates have that I didn’t? Not that I wanted the unwelcome advances from a priest-like sexual predator, but I would like to think I was at least cute enough to be considered.
The Church is built on the foundation that everyone is a sinner, and I never really had a problem with that principle. But was I guilty from the moment I was born, lathered with the stain of original sin? Legend has it that someone had to pay for the sin of free choice that Adam and Eve committed in the Garden of Eden, but to pin it on a newborn seems a little cold.
Even as a budding agnostic, dressed in my Kelly green school uniform, my thinking was that original sin was incredible bunk. I based this on the fact that I just got here, how the hell could I be in trouble already? Couldn’t I find all the things that church was suppose to give me within the depths of my own heart? Couldn’t I find the absolution needed for everlasting life within the goodness that I knew was in me? Was my refusal to abstain from consuming meat during every Lenten season since 1978 a venial or mortal sin? (Don’t laugh; I could be facing eternal damnation over a hot dog.)
For real Catholics, Lent is the period preceding Easter. It’s a time of self denial that represents the suffering the Lord endured during his last days on earth. So let me see if I get this. If give up candy, porn and liquor for a month, that represents getting savagely beaten by a bastard gang of ruthless Roman soldiers? Are my earthly sacrifices akin to being nailed to a cross by my arms and legs in front of Mother and my friends while begging forgiveness to my Father, the one who orchestrated all of this-just so he could show the world he loved us? Sounds like someone has a bit of an ego problem, if you ask me.
Still, let me see if I got this correct. He killed his only begotten son to show the world he cared? It’s funny: There is a guy in Texas on trial for doing the same thing but no one is claiming he’s the Almighty Father, he’s getting the chair. Needless to say, I left the church when Father Weldon asked me. I did so without a fight or worse yet, beseeching exoneration for marrying an immature woman who, for whatever reason slept around on me behind my back. I have been excommunicated as if I were Galileo or Martin Luther.
My image of God is not of a grandfatherly looking chap in a white robe, but of the brightest light you can imagine- a light I saw the last time I got insanely drunk 21 years ago- a light that told me to seek help, which I did and haven’t had a touch of the creature since. I go to the church of my God now-in the woods, the mountains, on a snowy hillside. While on my weekly fishing trips, I thank my God of Light for the gifts that have been bestowed upon me, for they are many. And I ask for the forgiveness and the strength to remove my shortcomings, for they are many, as well. There is no collection plate passed and no Sweepstakes tickets to buy for that same crazy quilt that was raffled off last year. There are no men dressed in robes, chanting, burning incense, or having cookies with old ladies afterwards. There is just me, with what little faith I can muster, hoping that I do his or her will. I don’t have the answers; I only have the questions. And all I know about God is that there is one; but what his will for me is I would never be so arrogant to say. This is what really separates me and my older brother- the priest. Ever the anti- Bing Crosby, I go my way, down a path that leads to the unknown that is God’s mansion on the hill.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Auld acquaintance should be forgot
By Johnnie Carrier
Wednesday, December 31
Oh great, another New Year's Eve. It's the most uncomfortable night of the year -- wasn't that an Andy Williams song? Whether I'm at home, at a friend' s house party or down at the Eagles Hall dressed like Malcolm McDowell in Stanley Kubrick's "A Clockwork Orange," New Year's Eve is one night of the year I wish I could skip.
There is a certain vibe oozing from New Year's Eve that makes you, for some unknown reason, pick the biggest fight of the year with your wife or girlfriend. Why? I don't know, and if I did, I would be wrecking lives with Dr. Phil on TV.
Most often it starts from a set-up question from your wife, who, in some predetermined way, is being used by the Queen of Bad Karma. It's not the usual set-up question, either. With her hair looking great, and the dress she's wearing not distorting the shape and size of her hips, she's doomed to ask you, "Don't you think that girl over there is pretty?"
If you answer no, you've insulted your wife's taste and you spend the rest of New Year's Eve answering questions about other things you disagree on (or worse, listening to how you have nothing in common).
Should you answer, "Yes, that girl over there is pretty," hold on. You are in for an equally long night. Because it's here she'll say with that certain attitude, "Why don't you kiss her at midnight?"
I don't care if you are Mahatma Gandhi, possessing the patience of Job. Maybe you are some
panty-wearing, touchy-feely metro-sexual, who is really in tune with your wife's feelings. It doesn't matter. There is something God put inside of you that makes you answer: "All right, I think I will (kiss her), after I consume a bottle of Hennessey's Irish whiskey and throw up on a stranger's suede coat."
Once you get your own life calmed down, you face the anxiety of the midnight kiss, which for some reason has the same amount of pressure as an air traffic controller talking down one of the passengers to a safe landing. Especially if you are out with that couple whose other half is the crazy, jealous type of guy. After kissing your own wife -- yes, the one you've been fighting with all night -- it's customary to kiss the other ladies in the group. And when you make your move on the wife of that other couple, Mr. Crazy hovers over you as if he was an Apache helicopter and you were a grass hut village. He's holding a stop clock, making sure you don't linger on his wife's lips longer than he thinks you should. As if I was George Clooney in size-44 pants.
The wife of course has had a few pops and grabs you as if she was some spinster school marm from a John Houston movie. Full of pent-up feelings for anyone who doesn't pepper her with questions about whom she talked to at the supermarket, she kisses you as if you were marching off to some type of state-sponsored police action in a third-world nation. And now you have another nut on your hands.
A night like this makes staying home watching Ryan Seacrest talk for Dick Clark (like some animatronics gone badly from Walt Disney World), look good. But that's what I do now on New Year's. I stay at home, where I can avoid the other crazies of the world and argue with my wife in the friendly confines of my living room.
Of course there is one more reason I no longer go out on New Year's Eve. It's the song. For some deep-seated, emotionally charged reason, "Auld Lang Syne" makes me cry harder than peeling a Spanish onion. It's a relatively new phenomenon in my life that started at a friend's house a few years ago.
At midnight, I kissed my wife, the song started playing, and I ran out of the room sobbing, as if I were the ingénue in an afternoon soap opera.
It was not the coolest moment in my life. And no one found it sexy like they do when men cry in the movies. Plus, who wants to spend New Year's with a crying fat guy? No one, not even me!
So, party like it's 1999? Nope not me, I'm going to bed early and try to miss the whole thing. Just don't come up to me in the supermarket singing that song, or you'll have a blubbering fool in the frozen food aisle.
Johnnie Carrier of North Adams is a freelance writer who's glad they don't have a song for Valentine's Day
By Johnnie Carrier
Wednesday, December 31
Oh great, another New Year's Eve. It's the most uncomfortable night of the year -- wasn't that an Andy Williams song? Whether I'm at home, at a friend' s house party or down at the Eagles Hall dressed like Malcolm McDowell in Stanley Kubrick's "A Clockwork Orange," New Year's Eve is one night of the year I wish I could skip.
There is a certain vibe oozing from New Year's Eve that makes you, for some unknown reason, pick the biggest fight of the year with your wife or girlfriend. Why? I don't know, and if I did, I would be wrecking lives with Dr. Phil on TV.
Most often it starts from a set-up question from your wife, who, in some predetermined way, is being used by the Queen of Bad Karma. It's not the usual set-up question, either. With her hair looking great, and the dress she's wearing not distorting the shape and size of her hips, she's doomed to ask you, "Don't you think that girl over there is pretty?"
If you answer no, you've insulted your wife's taste and you spend the rest of New Year's Eve answering questions about other things you disagree on (or worse, listening to how you have nothing in common).
Should you answer, "Yes, that girl over there is pretty," hold on. You are in for an equally long night. Because it's here she'll say with that certain attitude, "Why don't you kiss her at midnight?"
I don't care if you are Mahatma Gandhi, possessing the patience of Job. Maybe you are some
panty-wearing, touchy-feely metro-sexual, who is really in tune with your wife's feelings. It doesn't matter. There is something God put inside of you that makes you answer: "All right, I think I will (kiss her), after I consume a bottle of Hennessey's Irish whiskey and throw up on a stranger's suede coat."
Once you get your own life calmed down, you face the anxiety of the midnight kiss, which for some reason has the same amount of pressure as an air traffic controller talking down one of the passengers to a safe landing. Especially if you are out with that couple whose other half is the crazy, jealous type of guy. After kissing your own wife -- yes, the one you've been fighting with all night -- it's customary to kiss the other ladies in the group. And when you make your move on the wife of that other couple, Mr. Crazy hovers over you as if he was an Apache helicopter and you were a grass hut village. He's holding a stop clock, making sure you don't linger on his wife's lips longer than he thinks you should. As if I was George Clooney in size-44 pants.
The wife of course has had a few pops and grabs you as if she was some spinster school marm from a John Houston movie. Full of pent-up feelings for anyone who doesn't pepper her with questions about whom she talked to at the supermarket, she kisses you as if you were marching off to some type of state-sponsored police action in a third-world nation. And now you have another nut on your hands.
A night like this makes staying home watching Ryan Seacrest talk for Dick Clark (like some animatronics gone badly from Walt Disney World), look good. But that's what I do now on New Year's. I stay at home, where I can avoid the other crazies of the world and argue with my wife in the friendly confines of my living room.
Of course there is one more reason I no longer go out on New Year's Eve. It's the song. For some deep-seated, emotionally charged reason, "Auld Lang Syne" makes me cry harder than peeling a Spanish onion. It's a relatively new phenomenon in my life that started at a friend's house a few years ago.
At midnight, I kissed my wife, the song started playing, and I ran out of the room sobbing, as if I were the ingénue in an afternoon soap opera.
It was not the coolest moment in my life. And no one found it sexy like they do when men cry in the movies. Plus, who wants to spend New Year's with a crying fat guy? No one, not even me!
So, party like it's 1999? Nope not me, I'm going to bed early and try to miss the whole thing. Just don't come up to me in the supermarket singing that song, or you'll have a blubbering fool in the frozen food aisle.
Johnnie Carrier of North Adams is a freelance writer who's glad they don't have a song for Valentine's Day
BUY MY DAMN BOOK
TAKE MY LIFE...PLEASE
by Johnnie Carrier; Edited by Glenn Drohan
"Funny, I thought I'd die laughing" John Adams (second President of the United States)
"This guy's sense of humor kills me" John Dillinger (shot while exiting a theatre)
"Buy this book or the terrorists win" George K. Bush (gas station attendant)
This collection of autobiographical short essays is truly funny. Hilarious! Poignant! Satirical! It will make your bathroom the envy of every man, woman, and child in the nation.
About the Author
Johnnie Carrier resides with his wife, Dawn, and son, David, in the beautiful Western Massachusetts city of North Adams. Undereducated and under-financed, Carrier finds himself living the All-American blue collar dream, which includes shopping the no-name food aisle at the neighborhood market. He loves short walks to the refrigerator, cars that start, and longs to be elected governor of Florida because it's the only way he could afford to get away from these cold New England winters. He can be read bi-weekly in the North Adams Transcript or at www.thetranscript.com. (2008, paperback, 82 pages)
ISBN978-1-4349-6160-0$12.00
http://www.redleadbooks.com/tamyli.html
Take My Life...Please! (e-book)
This book is also available for download as an E-Book in Adobe Acrobat (.pdf) format. Get the same great book to read on your computer or PDA! It's less expensive and it saves paper!
ISBN978-1-4349-6160-0e-book$7.00
by Johnnie Carrier; Edited by Glenn Drohan
"Funny, I thought I'd die laughing" John Adams (second President of the United States)
"This guy's sense of humor kills me" John Dillinger (shot while exiting a theatre)
"Buy this book or the terrorists win" George K. Bush (gas station attendant)
This collection of autobiographical short essays is truly funny. Hilarious! Poignant! Satirical! It will make your bathroom the envy of every man, woman, and child in the nation.
About the Author
Johnnie Carrier resides with his wife, Dawn, and son, David, in the beautiful Western Massachusetts city of North Adams. Undereducated and under-financed, Carrier finds himself living the All-American blue collar dream, which includes shopping the no-name food aisle at the neighborhood market. He loves short walks to the refrigerator, cars that start, and longs to be elected governor of Florida because it's the only way he could afford to get away from these cold New England winters. He can be read bi-weekly in the North Adams Transcript or at www.thetranscript.com. (2008, paperback, 82 pages)
ISBN978-1-4349-6160-0$12.00
http://www.redleadbooks.com/tamyli.html
Take My Life...Please! (e-book)
This book is also available for download as an E-Book in Adobe Acrobat (.pdf) format. Get the same great book to read on your computer or PDA! It's less expensive and it saves paper!
ISBN978-1-4349-6160-0e-book$7.00
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