Regifting Johnny

Just over a year ago, on a day in October, the clouds broke and the sun shinned brightly. As bright as it ever has. The birds tweeted softly. The flowers were beautiful, blossoming in a time a year that it was scientifically impossible for them to do so. And the angels in heaven sang like angels do, which is to say, angelically.

The beauty of the world was so wonderful on that day, the Son of God himself wanted to descend upon the earth, but the Father held him back, just barely, with his great wisdom and foreknowledge, saying in his gentle, small voice, “Not yet, boy. Not yet.”

What the Father did not know, oddly enough, was that the Son had already, since the foundation of the universe, made plans to descend. He would allow his image to fall from heaven, and rest, like a dove, on one man. He would be a man chosen by the Son himself, for one purpose, one goal, one impossible task.

It was a task so great, so terrific, so unimaginably impossible, that for 86 years when mere men had tried to accomplish it, futility was the only result. Futility and frustration. Futility and frustration and fear that what was impossible would remain undone, unseen, unfulfilled.

But Lo, nothing is impossible with those who are called God.

And the Son, finding himself in such a position, and with a heavy burden for those who were created through him, those who had been faithful for so long, those who had called to him time and time again over the past 86 years with a single simple prayer: “Please, Lord, let this be the year.”

Their groaning rose up to the Son, and the Son heard their groaning, and the Son remembered his covenant with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, as well as with the city of Boston. The Son looked upon them, and the Son took notice of them.

And so, when the Father wasn’t looking, he would allow his image to slip from his face, descend from heaven, and fall onto the face of a mere man. He called out, then, to mortal men and said, “Who shall take my image? Who shall I send?”

And Lo, a man stepped forward and said, “Here I am. Send me, Lord.”

And the Son said, “Yes, it shall be you. Go.” And he allowed his continuance to fall upon the man’s face, and his face was transformed and transfigured, so that it bore the mark of the Son, and a .316 batting average.

And Lo, his name was Johnny.

And so, Johnny took on the impossible, the unthinkable, the unimaginable -- but now empowered and transfigured, and with a bat made of pure Golgotha pine.

Marked with the face of the Son,
and with the B of Boston,
Johnny, proclaiming, came near,
“This will be our year.”

But Lo, a Beast arose from the depths of the hell, and just off the shore of Manhattan. It had nine heads and eighteen legs, eighteen arms, and eighteen red eyes. Its skin was like that of scales, and every other hand was covered with a glove, made from the skin of its wretched victims. To its left, and to its right, stood men who seemed to have control of the beast. They would command it, “Run!” or “Hold up!” But the Beast only heard these commands as suggestions. It ran wild, consuming anyone or anything that came into its path, in a series of world domination and destruction.

From a box floating in the sky, however, Satan himself wielded ultimate power over the Beast. He fed the Beast crisp hundred dollar bills, which it ate by the millions, building and constructing the monster into his own image. And that image was represented by the mark of the Beast. The mark was burnt into the Beast’s chest, and on the foreheads of each of its nine heads.

Its mark was not the golden radiance of the Son -- but rather that of evil itself, the mark of Pin Stripes and Dollar Signs. The Beast was hideous in sight and painful to hear. It loomed large, and drew the masses of humanity into its grasp. Somehow, by black magic or sorcery, the people could not see nor resist its evil. They ran to it, embraced it, even as it embraced and devoured them.

The Beast had dominated and devoured the people of Boston for almost a century, and this is why they had called out. This is why the Son heard there plea. It was for liberation and salvation that the Son had answered their groans. And for this reason, Johnny had come, wearing red socks.

Marked with the face of the Son,
and with the B of Boston,
Johnny, proclaiming, came near,
“This will be our year.”
That is, the year of the Son’s favor,
And the Day of Salvation.

Johnny gathered friends and faithful followers, all wearing red socks, so that he had bats and gloves to match each head of the Beast. They kissed their loved ones goodbye, and atop stallions named Mercedes and Lexus and Ferrari and Bentley, with Johnny leading the charge, they rode into battle with the Beast.

The residents of Sodom and Gomorrah, renamed Manhattan and the Bronx, as well as those of the great city of Boston, gathered to watch the conflict, their fates hanging in the balance. The battle of the century, for the salvation and redemption of a people -- for the liberation of Boston.

Tragedy befell Johnny and the Red Sox the first day, and they had to retreat. The second day of battle came to the same result. Three days, Johnny and his crew were beaten, defeated, and flogged. They could not afford another day of loss, their hearts could not withstand it, and the rules would not allow. Johnny turned to his crew and said, “Boys, we are in the shit soup.”

But after three days of defeat, Johnny and crew rose again
to the challenge of fighting the Beast. And on the fourth victory was theirs. And the same result on the fifth. Six days, and the number of victories was even, between Johnny, his Red Sox, and the Beast.

One last day, one final conflict, one ultimate battle and clash of the bats. A swing and a miss. A swing and a hit. Balls in the air, in the gloves, and over the fence. And finally the day was over and the battle had been won. The Beast had been defeated, and fled back into the depths.

Yes, behold, on the Seventh Day Johnny and his Red Sox stood victorious on the shore, the people of Boston liberated and freed from the domination of the Beast -- 86 years of frustration and futility and fear, redeemed and relieved. The Curse of the Pin Stripes and Dollar Signs lifted, the people could breathe and smile and laugh again.

It was Johnny, with his bat, who had struck the final blow.
It was Johnny, in his hat, who became the people’s hero.

And now the sonofabitch has left Boston to become a harlot, a whore -- a Yankee.

Bastard.

The Mill, A Journey, and Some Reflections on the Apocalypse...

Almost exactly a month to the day, and I'm back at Mill Mountain...

And check this out:

I decided to get hair cut while I was here, so I asked around as to whether there was a barber shop within walking distance. And of course there is, so I get directions and then begin my expedition down Main Street, downtown Salem.

The street is small, lined with shops and cars, and easily crossable at any point, which I have to do in order to get to the barber shop. By the way, it is just off Main Street, a block down on College, if you ever need to know.

I turn the corner, from Main Street onto College, and I see the shop immediately. It has one of those swirling, multi-flavored, candy cane looking things hanging from the door.

When I walk in the door, it occurs to me that I better ask, "Are you guys cash only?" Of course they are! He says, "What?! Debit card? What the hell is that? Jesus told us to forgive our debts, not our debits." (I swear that's what the guy said to me)(Okay, not really, but I would have died if he had)

I smile, because, what the hell, cash only, and that is unassailable cool. Uncool is the fact that I don't have any cash, because I live a cash-less life, tied to my debit card for all financial transactions. This is my way of hurrying on the apocalypse, and the return of our Lord Jesus Christ. Because if my card number is the mark of the beast, as I am sure it is in some crazy-ass mathematical equation (involving imaginary numbers and fractions, no doubt) then sometimes, when I hold my card very, very tightly, then the numbers get imprinted on my palm. And then there it is, right there on my palm, the mark of the beast! It fades in time, however, and also it doesn't work if you are wearing gloves. The Bible doesn't warn you about that, or, I guess, expect that you would want to hurry such an event by giving in to the darkside.

In any case, I have to walk back to the bank, which conveniently sits at the corner of Main and College, but, inconveniently, does not have an ATM. A bank -- the main branch of Salem International Bank -- and they don't have an ATM! I walk in, the girl behind the counter says, "Hello, may I help you?" I say, "Do you have an ATM around here?" And she says, "No, we don't." Just like that -- no ATM -- how the hell cool is that? It's a bank!

Turns out the closest one is a couple blocks down the road, and so I walk down the street, toward the mountains, past a church, pay the fee, get my money, and back to the barber shop, where I have to wait in line behind four other guys. I do that, wait, and read the newspaper, the Roanoke Times, or whatever, and learn about local Christmas lights, and the impact of saying Happy Holidays instead of Merry Christmas. Also, Ethan Hawke is trying to get a woman out of prison in New Jersey who shot her boyfriend-cop, and who happens to be an old friend of his mother's. That's nice, and a great Christmas gift: "Here you go mom, my gift to you this Christmas. You better unwrap it soon, though, because I'm not sure I put holes in the box..." Only in the Roanoke Times (I know this because I read both the Washington Post and the New York Times back at Mill Mountain, how cool is that?).

Now, with my hairs cut (yes all of them, ha ha), I have returned to Mill Mountain, and sit at my table writing this blog. The day here today has been like all the other days I have spent here, including weird conversations, over-caffeinated children, and a grilled cheese sandwich with a tomato. Except today it's a little warm in here.

But now, with a five dollar bill in my pocket, I rest assured that if the Apocalypse were to happen today, a sign of which is the advent of the cash-less society, that at least this part of the Roanoke Valley -- Salem, Virginia -- would be spared the wrath of God, and there would be a place where I'd still be able to get a good cup of coffee, and read the paper, and think deeply about life, even when the dark and sinster evil that is the Anti-Christ rules over the entire world.

And that is a good to know.

Wal*Mart(insville): The Low Cost of High Fun

My first experience and taste of Martinsville, Virginia was the local Wal*Mart Supercenter. While in other towns the designation of “supercenter” means very little beyond “big-ass store where you can buy anything,” in Martinsville it takes on special significance. Not only is the story truly super, in size and powers to draw masses of people, but also it seems to be the center of life to people in Martinsville. I doubt this can be argued against -- it was, after all, the first place that I was taken upon arriving. There is a NASCAR racetrack in town, Martinsville Speedway, that I’m sure some would say is the cultural center of the town -- but this is hardly worth saying, nor does it refute my point. I think we can all agree that NASCAR, racetrack, and Wal*Mart all have the same meaning in cultural terms. They are practically interchangeable.

As we entered the store through the Garden Cetnter door we were greeted by a huge-ass inflatable snow globe, which encased Santa Claus and, I think, a snowman. Not even in the doors yet and already I could have gone home completely fulfilled and entertained for the evening. But then we went inside.

And it was packed -- packed "like a can of sardines," I bet some of them would say. But not with little fish; indeed, there was hardly anything little about these folks. They were moving from aisle to aisle, well-practiced in the art of avoiding each other, filling their carts with all things imaginable (such as Jeff Gordon cologne), and of course, at low-low prices. Whatever language they spoke, I could barely make it out as some derivative of broken English, but the children, the "lil-uns" as I heard them called, were fluent in it. To call it an accent or a dialect seems to diminish the beauty and autonomy of this truly wondrous communication they’ve no doubt worked so hard to develop.

Every one we came into contact with, child and adult alike, looked either half-drunk or completely pissed off. And all of them were wearing camo-coveralls and big red fluffy Dale, Jr. jackets -- all of them. One of the kids, running backwards down the main aisle of the store, almost ran into me, after which his mom yelled at him, “Kenny, you turn youself around and stop playing like a fool.” My response to this: “Kenny! His name is actually Kenny!” People here name their kids Kenny, folks.

As we left we came across the plastic and light-up figures with which people arrange nativity scenes in their front lawns, and we paid our respects to baby Jesus. And just to be sure, we gave equal respect to both the white and African-American baby Jesuses.

I know a lot of people have problems with Wal*Mart, and they want to shut down the huge mega-corporation for all the evils that it afflicts on both the local and global economies of the world. And I’m pretty cool with that, for the most part. But if they are ever successful at beating the beast that is Wal*Mart, I hope that they will consider allowing the Martinsville Super Center to remain open -- it is a cultural icon and national treasure. They could charge admission, or set up viewing booths to watch the locals in their natural habitat -- kinda like Colonial Williamsburg, but with camouflage and hard liquor.

I know I’d visit. At least twice a year.

Uncommonly Wealthy...

It's snowing...

Huge fluffy flakes of ice in unique patterns, falling ever so gently from the grey and clouded sky, which ends only as it disappears behind the red and orange mountains that surround Roanoke Valley.

I'm still in Virginia, still in Salem, still sitting at Mill Mountain Coffee and Tea. But now I sit alone.

Except, I'm not alone, but surrounded by people, who I'm guessing (or actually hoping beyond hope) are regulars at this cafe.

I'm surrounded by people, but not crowded. I have no sense of "crowded-ness" here in Salem, here in Virginia. I doubt they ever have crowds here, but only gatherings of people. People crowd at Starbucks, they gather at Mill Mountain. It's clouded, but not crowded.

Earlier it was crowded, but only for a moment. Dana was still here, and seven sixth grade girls came in, because school let out early, and I'm guessing they needed a place to hang out until their parents could pick them up. They came in, dragged a table next to ours, and began talking to us. To be fair, I started it, asking them if they were in the fourth grade -- an insult they quickly forgave, as they took control of my computer and started talking to my friends on Instant messenger. They were exhausting, but only because they were full of life. And very happy...

After they left, and Dana as well, a guy from London, England came over and asked for my help with his computer. In the deep British accent reminiscent of James Bond, he said, "I saw you with your Apple computer and I was wondering if you could be of assist me with my iTunes." I then spent the next several moments working with his PC laptop, deleting and rebooting and reinstalling files. When we finally got it working, he said, "Ah, brilliant. Can I buy you a cup of coffee for your trouble?" ( I would have given almost anything if he had offered a spot of tea instead), and his Music Store was set to pounds, and the clock on his computer was set to London times, and on the wallpaper of his desktop was a picture of a Great White shark leaping from the ocean, just off the coast of South Africa, where he had recently gone diving to view them. His wife is from Salem -- as I'm guessing all real people are. He is here for "holiday," which I know is the way you spell it, but I'm using the scare quotes to highlight the way he said it -- and note the lack of an article. Brilliant.

The light outside is growing dim, snow is falling from the sky, and my keyboard is being lit by the white lights that are hung on a Christmas tree right behind me. I just reached back and touched it. I have books all over my table, and a cup of coffee right next to my computer. I just took a drink. It's snowing outside.

A little boy with blonde hair just ran by me, stopped to say "hi", then pressed his face up against the window, before announcing, "It's snowing!"

I may never leave this place, the Commonwealth of Virginia...

Making Mountains Out of Coffee Mills...

I'm in Salem, Virginia, sitting at a local coffee house called Mill Mountain Coffee and Tea. Out the window I can see the people of this small town go about their day before Thanksgiving business, and the people inside talk and read newspapers. Dana struggles to do the Roanoke Times crossword puzzle.

After eating my raisin bran muffin, and as I sit here drinking my coffee and feeling a bit weighted by the stress of major papers and PhD applications, it occurs to me that I could live in a town like this for the rest of my life. Get up early in the morning, come down here for coffee in the morning, read and write, and minister at a small local church. Know the people, know myself, know peace and life in a way I never have. And never be known outside the bounds of this little town. Never to be famous or have any form of notoriety.

At least until my blockbuster, Pulitzer Prize winning novel is published, which starts a movement in the lives of people, and eventually accounts for my receiving the Nobel Peace Prize, and being called the greatest writer of the 21st century.

Then I'd probably be famous.