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Wednesday Midnight Mass
Aug. 1st, 2002 01:18 amLos Angeles Metro Church North 156.
The worshippers took their seats, 12:37am. The preacher stood, facing his weary audience...he looked straight at me.
"Dead as a doornail" he said. I looked away. He asked the snickering crowd, or the Holy Ghosts in his head, if we would like a needle...or some thread perhaps. There was no response. The preacher continued to puff on a cheap, wrapped cigar. Now it was time for the one-man choir to murder Hymn 596, "Proud Mary". And so he did. A few parishioners clapped, a few more left the church.
The preacher, silenced by the wavering strains of the one-man choir, left the pulpit with this advice,
"Don't worry, you can all have Chop Suey...with flied lice."
I sat weary, watchful, cold, compact...until the prophecy was revealed. Sitting at my feet in the aisle, a scraggly, middle-aged devotee, carrying his home on his back, half-turned to me and said with a sigh,
"It sure is 2002."
We are not alone.
___________________
That had to be the fucking scariest bus ride ever...for me at least. Not only was I the only female on the bus, but the only white person. Which I don't mind, but others notice. Not only am I white, but I am WHITE. Heh, all this waiting for buses is making me get an effing tan though. Damn me and my genes. What an apocolyptic experience. NYC, you have nothing on LA when it comes to giving me a late-night heebie-jeebie. Luckily, all that training as a "gothic princess"(as Robert used to call me) came in handy with cold stares and "don't fuck with me" postures.
So the lamb, the black sheep, is home, safe, finally. She took off her clothes immediately and noticed the effects of constant walking to bus stops and everywhere inbetween and she was pleased. She put on her grey, cotton tank top and noticed how it made her breasts look quite pleasing. She shuffled softly to the kitchen to get some milk, where she stood in the dim light, drinking and lazily examining the new blister on her left foot. Finished, she looks around for that surly mass of black fur that seems to comfort her. She carefully picks the sleeping mass from the chair and turning off the light, carries him into her bedroom. Holding his heavy body, she nuzzles his soft fur, breathing in the smell of kitty-comfort. The lamb is tired. She must sleep.
Ni-ni.
The worshippers took their seats, 12:37am. The preacher stood, facing his weary audience...he looked straight at me.
"Dead as a doornail" he said. I looked away. He asked the snickering crowd, or the Holy Ghosts in his head, if we would like a needle...or some thread perhaps. There was no response. The preacher continued to puff on a cheap, wrapped cigar. Now it was time for the one-man choir to murder Hymn 596, "Proud Mary". And so he did. A few parishioners clapped, a few more left the church.
The preacher, silenced by the wavering strains of the one-man choir, left the pulpit with this advice,
"Don't worry, you can all have Chop Suey...with flied lice."
I sat weary, watchful, cold, compact...until the prophecy was revealed. Sitting at my feet in the aisle, a scraggly, middle-aged devotee, carrying his home on his back, half-turned to me and said with a sigh,
"It sure is 2002."
We are not alone.
___________________
That had to be the fucking scariest bus ride ever...for me at least. Not only was I the only female on the bus, but the only white person. Which I don't mind, but others notice. Not only am I white, but I am WHITE. Heh, all this waiting for buses is making me get an effing tan though. Damn me and my genes. What an apocolyptic experience. NYC, you have nothing on LA when it comes to giving me a late-night heebie-jeebie. Luckily, all that training as a "gothic princess"(as Robert used to call me) came in handy with cold stares and "don't fuck with me" postures.
So the lamb, the black sheep, is home, safe, finally. She took off her clothes immediately and noticed the effects of constant walking to bus stops and everywhere inbetween and she was pleased. She put on her grey, cotton tank top and noticed how it made her breasts look quite pleasing. She shuffled softly to the kitchen to get some milk, where she stood in the dim light, drinking and lazily examining the new blister on her left foot. Finished, she looks around for that surly mass of black fur that seems to comfort her. She carefully picks the sleeping mass from the chair and turning off the light, carries him into her bedroom. Holding his heavy body, she nuzzles his soft fur, breathing in the smell of kitty-comfort. The lamb is tired. She must sleep.
Ni-ni.
