People Watching on a Sunday

It was a typical Sunday when Howard and I were having our usual coffee session in the deli. Absent for a while, Howard and his ex girlfriend who things are complicated with operate an air B and B downtown. As usual, the Yemeni counter guy and his Mexican employee were cracking jokes with the plethora of characters that drift in and out. Some of the guys are blue collar dudes, changing shifts and calling the counter guy a terrorist. The counter guy tells them he will blow up their house and steal their woman. We all laugh.

Then some other blue collar guy calls the Mexican dude a board jumper. Of course the Mexican dude says not only is this true but he will steal his woman as well. As I stated, we all laugh. It’s irreverent, politically incorrect, but we are all friends. In a way, it is like if Roseanne or Cheers came to New York, and their safe place was not The Lunchbox or the Cheers Bar. Rather, it is this deli and the glass window and the door are what protects our safe place from the outside world.

Yokels like my friend Howard and myself are ever present. We drink our coffee, have some breakfast, and read the paper. Howard and I found ourselves discussing the Bill Cosby controversy. Personally, after what I have heard I would hesitate to take a pudding pop from the man. Then again, it all pointed to rapist when he worked as a baby doctor on his television show. And anyone who has that much of a moral high ground and is that conservative, watch out. Still, it was fascinating.

As we had this conversation, Howard and I saw this bulldog walk by. This fella was strutting, puffing his chest out. By the way his teeth jutted as well as his distinct walk you knew this pup had personality. As the dog passed, I pointed this out to Howard. Then the dog passed again and Howard concurred. It was amazing how this pooch could have so much personality. As a matter of fact, I have nicknamed that bulldog Sir Winston Churchill. He has officially become Prime Minister of Hell’s Kitchen.

Winston’s strutting was short lived. He was overthrown by a miserable looking, displaced sheep dog with a white shag that looked like it hadn’t been washed in forever. With him was an owner who looked like a text book loser. With a cigarillo cigarette, he errantly blew smoke thus helping to further ruin the ozone. His annoyed dog pooped in one place, and then decided he wasn’t done and popped in another. It wasn’t because the sheep dog’s colon had a problem, rather he wanted to screw with his owner and get under the dude’s skin for not giving him a bath. He sheep dog succeeded. As this was happening, we felt the vibe from the dog that said, “Yes, I am with this loser but I am pretending to be adopted and not to know him.”

The owner did not get the memo, and continued to blow his smoke risking lung cancer to himself and pollution to those around him. His canine companion hung his head in a mix of teen angst and shame. The two continued onward. Howard agreed with me. The dog hated it’s owner. We hated it’s owner. Nobody liked this guy. I named the sheep dog Bernie.

As we looked out the window, Howard and I both agreed one could tell a lot about a person by the shoes they wore. This dude waltzed by wearing shorts despite the warm but not so warm weather. On his feet, he was sporting orange sneakers. “He is just trying to be cooler than he is, and he isn’t that cool.” Howard observed. “That is usually the case for people who wear colored sneakers.”

Howard was correct. I had an ex who wore both orange and red sneakers. Isaac was ever the wannabe and rubbed many a person the wrong way. I was willing to bet this same idiot with the colored sneakers probably had a band in high school and one that probably barely performed now. Either way, this was the guy at the party trying way to hard. Somehow, this dude always had a girlfriend and she had entered the most cheat free situation ever. Oh, and she constantly let him know she could do better. Then his mother probably regularly called him a mistake. Sigh, to the man with the brightly colored sneakers.

Seconds later, our next victim appeared. This gentlemen wore wool socks and sandals. Howard and I observed this was a fella that could commit to no season and would probably be a lousy boyfriend because he couldn’t plan a date. Not to mention someone that you wouldn’t want to hire to work for your company.

Then after him came the girl who was all out in the snow boots. Howard and I surmised this was a chick with a plan. Completely neurotic and no fun, she was ready for any and all emergencies. Walking with her was a chick who had on simple rain boots. She was also a chick with a plan, but much more fun than her uber neurotic friend.

After her came a teenage girl who was wearing a trendy multi-purpose sneaker boot that many of the kids wear these days. With her she was grudgingly walking a dog, and had a disgusted look on her face like someone forced to pick up droppings from her four legged companion who looked less than thrilled to be with her. “She looks like she has a plan, but doesn’t know what it is. But she’s got one.” I told Howard looking at the young woman’s foot wear.

“Oh, she is coming up with a plan, and her plan is to ditch that dog.” Howard observed. I agreed. My friend was correct.

Following her was a girl with nice flats on, clearly not rain appropriate shoes though. Howard and I both agreed that if we were to meet her in real life we would probably like her best. She looked vaguely like Lisa Turtle from Saved By the Bell. The girl seemed pleasant, and there was no way she could ever know that she got off easy under our gavel. Still, if she knew it might make her day while she gave us an ear full for being such jerk offs. But we were behind the glass. She could hear us just about as well as Helen Keller. Not to mention she might be judging us as two losers with no other friends hanging out on a Sunday afternoon.

As I sat there judging strangers, I thought about those I knew and barely liked and what their shoes said about them. Yes, I am talking ex-boyfriends. Sean always wore Velcro shoes, which said he was an idiot trying to be smart and cool but failed like an alcoholic at a field sobriety test. Scott always wore lace up black boots or high top shoes. Both say would be punk rocker, but emphasis on would be because his hair line was diminishing quickly, so he merely looked like a lost old man. Holden always wore work boots, which was appropriate because he always had transient jobs and hitch hiked quite a bit during his sprees of homelessness. Hell No, Joe always wore sneakers he barely tied, which means idiot jackass all the way. So there you have it. The shoes do make a man.

Howard told me this was to be my latest blog. It’s the least I could do for my pal. He hasn’t been around because his internet has been down. Plus he always gives me good material. Here I am hoping church saves my blackened soul. Once I exit the building, there is Howard waiting, eager to bring out the demon in me again. Alas, there is no hope all ye who enter our corner store.

When we die, that is in the event one of our people we are watching hears us and stabs us both, check Howard and I out in hell. The way this planet is going and knowing my fans it is possible anyone reading this blog will be joining us as well. If you do see us, we will be giving color commentary on the new arrivals giving them a crappy start to their eternal roasting. No worries, Satan scouted us for the gig ahead of time.

However, Howard and I don’t get off entirely scot free. He will be forced to spend an hour a week in church, and I will be forced to spend an hour a week with one of my old boyfriends.

And Bill Cosby will have pudding pop for all the unsuspecting pretty ladies.

Oh what tangled webs we weave

www.aprilbrucker.com

Sunday Girl (Blondie)

Yeah, it's church time again. I just got back from mass. Being Catholic is like a heroin habit. You never quite kick it. There have been times where I have taken a break from church for extended periods. That is, only to find myself feeling like I left the house and the hair dryer was still on. Or I tried other faith services to see what they did and what they believed. I am not saying they weren't nice people, many were sincere about becoming better people. However, there was always this feeling because the service resembled the mass so much that it was like a cover of a hit song. Or there were things I could not quite get used to.

Once, I went to a church where a friend of mine was trying to become a deacon. It was a Presbyterian Church of some sort. Anyway, as I said, great people. The guest preacher was wonderful. A man who had marched with Dr. King, I could have heard this man speak all day. He spoke for almost 20 minutes, but each minute was locked and loaded with wisdom. Afterwards, we all had coffee and talked. Things were great, and then I met an associate pastor. He looked like Santa's disgruntled brother. Anyway, he said, "Hi, I was noticing you over there and couldn't help but say hi."

"Hi." I said with my coffee in hand.

"Anyway, I do private Bible studies. Here is my number if you are so interested." He took out a piece of paper and scribbled his digits on there. In a few seconds I had a revelation. The associate pastor was hitting on me! What was even worse was his wife was only three feet away! My jaw dropped open. Wasn't he supposed to be a man of God? Eh, not so much. Insert dancing girls and Charlton Heston saying in his deep voice, "Sins of the flesh."

Either way, as a Catholic our priests molest alter and choir boys. Sure, at least I was a legal adult woman so at least I could consent. Isn't not committing adultery one of the Ten Commandments? Needless to say, I never returned to that church.

Another time I went to church with another friend. It was a super, duper alternative church. It had a crazy name that I can't recall and it was inter-faith. The woman who was the pastor was an ex-Broadway actress who had a moderate amount of success. She had gone through an African American AME seminary in order to become a minister. This was of course after she had successfully kicked her alcohol and Xanax habit. My friend dragged me to this Sunday service.

We got there, and I anticipated a stand up/sit down type of thing. Instead, there were these seven women sitting in the front dressed in tribal gear. The pastor, Reverend Barbara, explained these were the Native Mothers and they were here to educate us on what true spirituality was. So each of these women got up, talked about where they were from, and said a prayer in their native language. Then they showed us a film about these women. This was like no church service I had been to ever. Now I was completely lost. The film wasn't about spirituality either. It was about how herbs could be used as alternative medicine, and modern science and doctors were killing people with cancer drugs. Additionally, after the film was over the audience was encouraged to go off any meds they were on because the FDA was evil, and holistic medicine was the only way.

I will admit modern medicine is not perfect. However, Skipper and Wendell spent most of their adult lives in school. They know a thing or two. Minutes later, after the movie ended there was a reading of some poem and some dude dressed in all black did an interpretive dance, and then this gay show choir broke out into a hymn of praise with a Broadway beat. I was completely lost as to what was going on and to what these people believed. I wasn't feeling spiritual, I was feeling like I was having a horrid acid trip. What did they believe? I think they made it up as they went. The Unitarians at least believe in the pod people.

Then the bishop of the church came forth. He is this nutty guy I know who used to work as a gay porn star/escort who's poster still hangs in adult book stores stores in Chelsea, dick in mouth. He said, "And now for the magic chant...." And then chanted in some language I did not recognize.

That was enough for me. I still want to know how he got to be bishop. Typically one has to train for that position. Not in this church though.

Of course all faiths have their drama. One of my favorite camera men is a priest in the Church of Satan. A good friend and awesome bullshit buddy, he and his porn star wife do have a true open marriage. However, Satanism has it's own drama and there is in fighting and some people use magic and others don't. But hey, at least they know what they believe, right?

So back to the present. Today I am in church praying like always, or at least trying to until something distracts me. In walks this monk who is totally gorgeous. Just about as gorgeous as the gay porn star/deacon of the alt church I went to for a minute. I mean, I wanted to throw off that robe and ravage him. Sins of the flesh. Damn, why did this have to the Catholic church instead of the Presbyterian one where my friend was trying to be a deacon? If the associate pastor would have looked like him, McYumski. He took some crazy vowel of celibacy. I thought about what cheesy pick up lines I would use. And then the bell rang. Time to stand. What a buzz kill for my sin of the flesh live and in person.

Of course I never said I was a good Catholic. This is the express mass, I am in and out in less than 40 minutes. A friend of mine who works up the street comes with her husband. Like dead beats we all kind of sit in the back. However, my church is quiet. It is off the beaten path. There is no drama. It's a nice way to start my week. As the priest was speaking, I kept wanting to go to the confessional booth with this monk and go to town. Luckily church boy wasn't there otherwise I would have just been sucked to hell for the things going through my mind.

Later, I went to the coffee shop. I saw my friend Howard who has lived this life that should be made into a movie. Howard has been an actor, filmmaker, college professor, and everything in between. Additionally, he has lived in Thailand, met militant Buddhists, and dated the daughter of William Westmoreland. Howard always sees me coming from church, and we always joke about how I am Catholic and he is Jewish, and how as a Jew he doesn't understand the Catholic need to seek sanctuary in church.

This week, Howard had a crisis. He has an on again/off again girlfriend and they operate an Air B and B together. Welcome to New York. Anyway, I relayed my monk crisis to Howard. Howard suggested I try to corrupt the monk and see how chaste he really is. This began to sound interesting. Howard also wanted to know if my church had any pretty girls, and perhaps socials. That way he could go and pick up chicks. His angle would be that while he was Jewish, he wanted to find Jesus more than ever. And maybe this would get him laid. I thought the plan was genius, and I agreed to support my friend's efforts.

Howard brought up the fact that his people killed my savior. However, I was quick to point out Jesus had a good life, ran around with hookers, made booze and food out of raw materials and had a rich absentee father that got him God status off the bat. He could handle a bad thing or two. Howard and I laughed at this. Then I felt bad for being such a jerk wad because I had done all this hard work.

Minutes later my friend Mindy strolled in. A rock 'n' roll roadie turned vet, she admitted she was doing the walk of shame from the home of a man whom she had sex with on the semi-regular. As we all began to talk, we all turned into our regular, self-centered, dick head selves. At least I did. Eh, we all did.

It reminds me of when I was a kid. We would get out of mass, and then into the car. Instantly, we began to make fun of some of the regulars in our church. My dad usually kicked it off, followed by Wendell and then me. Then my dad would try to relay it to the reading, but then would turn into a jerkoff again. My mom would insist we waited until we got home to become assholes, along with Skipper.

Alas we are human. I was a saint for five minutes until that cute monk wandered in.

Howard, this blog is for you.

Love
April