Brother Elijah licked his lips and scanned the 'man seeking man' section of the personals.
SWM seeks father figure for lunchtime bonding.
Nice, but not quite what he was looking for.
DWM seeks hung partners unafraid to play dirty.
Getting closer, but still not what he was after.
18-year-old stud seeks older men to manhandle.
Pay dirt.
He circled it, contacted the guy, and set up a date.
At about the same time, a loose network of equally pious men and women made similar arrangements all across the city.
They called their movement Perversion Conversion, and the philosophy they followed was simple: If you are going to save the sinners, you have to go to where the sinners are.
It was the core mission of www.churchofthepiouslife.com, Brother Elijah's online church, which boasted a citywide congregation numbering in the hundreds. Although the church had no physical location and the members of its congregation had never actually met, it was a devoted bunch, comprising people from all walks of life who came together in the belief that the path to eternal salvation was a life free of sin, particularly sins of the flesh. This point was reinforced every week during Brother Elijah's passionate web sermons in which he told his congregation to find the sinners of the city, sit down with them, and give them the Good News.
Their targets were the legions of sex maniacs that lurked like unseen roaches in every crack and fold in the city: bondage freaks, dominatrices, homosexuals, adulterers, fetishists, prostitutes, hustlers, all of them. To the congregation of www.churchofthepiouslife.com their online personal ads were really cries for help. They, Perversion Conversion, would answer their calls and help them change their sinful ways.
Most of the time they failed miserably.
During almost every rendezvous of Perversion Conversion, the Brothers and Sisters of www.churchofthepiouslife.com found themselves on the receiving end of spectacular verbal, and sometimes even physical abuse. Almost every target demanded they pay for whatever skeezy hotel room they'd booked. Most also demanded cab fare, and many got it.
Their success rate was abysmal. Typically, for every 100 "dates" Perversion Conversion went on, fewer than five would lead to a conversation that progressed beyond angry words and threats of violence. Of those, almost none led to anyone actually joining the church. During the first six months of Perversion Conversion, only three sinners repented. Not a great success rate, especially when you consider that roughly one in 50 appointments actually ended with the Brother or Sister who'd responded to the ad willfully participating in whatever sex act had been solicited and then quietly pretending nothing had ever happened.
It continued this way for several months.
Gradually, those seeking sex got wise to the game and stopped placing those kinds of ads. Soon it got to the point where far more often than not, a Brother or Sister would show up to a hotel room only to discover they'd actually set up a date with another Brother or Sister. Once they figured out the mistake, they would laugh about it and then go hang out platonically for the rest of the evening. Almost always they would exchange contact information and become friends.
Meanwhile, those who'd been seeking sex continued to do so, but they went about it in more circumspect ways. Personal ads seeking "Bible study partners", "Bible study groups", "spiritual counselors," and "someone to give me communion" became much more common.
In time, the Perversion Conversion campaign came to an end, as did www.churchofthepiouslife.com. Their online community had been replaced by several pockets of Brothers and Sisters who met face to face rather than on the Internet to discuss matters of faith. And even though they'd managed to convert very few people, most of them looked upon Perversion Conversion as a success. Through it, in a very roundabout way, they'd managed to connect with other people who had the same values and beliefs they had. Which was really why they'd gone looking for a church to join in the first place.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
June 10 - The Beginning of the End
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Wednesday, June 9, 2010
June 9 - Not a Hero
Listen.
It was a hectic morning. Lots going on. Careers at stake. Crisis mode. We had the Martinson briefing, the Fielding deposition, and God only knows what else. Go time. Shot clock winding down. The printer was jammed, and print jobs were backing up.
Somebody had to step up.
Somebody had to unjam the printer. Otherwise, everything was screwed.
Fortunately for you guys, that's where I thrive.
Game on the line. Down by a point. Seconds remaining. Somebody had to take the shot. Somebody had to bring this ship in from the storm.
But all this talk about saving the day? Hero? The savior of Livingstone and Associates? Honestly, I think you're being a wee bit dramatic, don't you?
I mean, imagine it's the same situation and I don't step up. What's the worst that happens? We show up late. Unprepared. Flustered. We look unprofessional. Embarrass ourselves. Maybe lose a couple mil in revenues. But life goes on, right?
Right.
But thank God it didn't come to that. Thank God I was there. Thank God I knew what needed to be done. And most of all, thank God I maintained my focus at the moment of truth, stepped in, and unjammed that printer.
Because of me, everything turned out just fine.
Thank God.
But does that really make me a hero? I don't know, man. Don't ask me. That's for history to decide.
It was a hectic morning. Lots going on. Careers at stake. Crisis mode. We had the Martinson briefing, the Fielding deposition, and God only knows what else. Go time. Shot clock winding down. The printer was jammed, and print jobs were backing up.
Somebody had to step up.
Somebody had to unjam the printer. Otherwise, everything was screwed.
Fortunately for you guys, that's where I thrive.
Game on the line. Down by a point. Seconds remaining. Somebody had to take the shot. Somebody had to bring this ship in from the storm.
But all this talk about saving the day? Hero? The savior of Livingstone and Associates? Honestly, I think you're being a wee bit dramatic, don't you?
I mean, imagine it's the same situation and I don't step up. What's the worst that happens? We show up late. Unprepared. Flustered. We look unprofessional. Embarrass ourselves. Maybe lose a couple mil in revenues. But life goes on, right?
Right.
But thank God it didn't come to that. Thank God I was there. Thank God I knew what needed to be done. And most of all, thank God I maintained my focus at the moment of truth, stepped in, and unjammed that printer.
Because of me, everything turned out just fine.
Thank God.
But does that really make me a hero? I don't know, man. Don't ask me. That's for history to decide.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
June 8 - The Ten Monkey Derby
Dog racing has been around for decades. But why no jockeys?
Safety concerns would be most people's answer, and they would have a good point. The few attempts to outfit various breeds of dogs with saddles have all ended in humiliation at best, and maiming (and even death) at worst. The 1920s and 1930s in particular are littered with stories of midgets and children trampled by English sheepdogs and rottweilers--greyhounds were always too slender--that didn't take to their saddles.
In time, the dog racing industry accepted that riderless dogs was the way to go, and for many years that was that--until eccentric Michigan-based dog racing magnate "Doghouse" Bradford Holcomb came up with the idea of monkey jockeys in the early 1950s.
As is the case with most revolutions in dog racing, monkey jockeys were an accident. Doghouse Holcomb, owner and manager of Dexter Lake, Michigan's Dexter Downs Racetrack dressed his pet capuchin monkey Talo like a cowboy (complete with boots and spurs) and tied him to the back of a greyhound to promote the rodeo that Dexter Downs was going to be hosting in a few weeks. His plan was to lead Talo and the dog down the homestretch prior to each night's main event accompanied by various monkey-themed announcements touting the rodeo (i.e. "Quit monkeying around and get your tickets for the Dexter Downs Rodeo today!" ; "You're gonna go bananas at the Dexter Downs Rodeo!" and "The Dexter Downs Rodeo is the hottest ticket in town--and that ain't no monkey business!").
Everything was going great until Talo started shooting the cap guns they'd given him. This spooked the greyhound he was riding on, causing him to take off and tear around the track with the now panicked Talo firing off more and more caps, which only served to make the dog run faster.
Well, the crowd loved it.
So much so that the following weekend, Doghouse Holcomb secured the "temporary release" of three more monkeys from the zoo, dressed them all up like bellhops, and hosted the first ever Monkey Derby. This was followed a week later by the first ever All Monkey Steeple Chase for which Doghouse Holcomb played up the steeple theme by dressing two of the monkeys in tuxedos (aka monkey suits) and two in wedding dresses.
It was huge.
A week later, Doghouse Holcomb got his hands on six more monkeys for a total of ten that would race every Saturday night. He named the weekly monkey race the Ten Monkey Derby and made all of his employees say it so that it sounded like the Kentucky Derby.
The audiences must have liked the name because attendance grew every week.
Each Saturday there was a different theme with different costumes: Cops and robbers. Cowboys and Indians. Hobos. Clowns. One week the monkeys were decked out like outlaw bikers. Another week, at the height of the Sputnik era, two of the monkeys were dressed like Soviet cosmonauts, and the other eight in cowboy costumes. (Originally, they were going to be dressed like American astronauts, but the Dexter Downs staff couldn't tell the difference between the cosmonauts and the astronauts, so they figured cowboys was the most obviously American option after astronauts, so that's what they went with.)
To promote the weekly event, Doghouse hired Jimmy Leslie, Dexter Lake's town drunk to wear a gorilla costume and pass out monkey race flyers every Friday afternoon. Every weekend a different high school marching band from the area would play the national anthem at the beginning of the evening and Aba Daba Honeymoon before the Ten Monkey Derby.
The Detroit TV stations all did news segments on it. There was talk about the race going national.
But the deal fell through when on one rainy Saturday night there was a collision in the home stretch that sent two greyhounds and three monkeys to the vet. Many of the children in attendance that night were nearly traumatized by the sight, and their parents were mortified. Who knew monkey racing could be so dangerous?
Although the animals eventually recovered, the Ten Monkey Derby never really did, at least not legitimately. Interest in the race waned, and after a few more weeks of diminishing returns, Doghouse pulled the plug, sending the Dexter Lake monkey racing scene underground.
Now, more than 50 years later, Dexter Downs is run by Doghouse's grandson, Bradford the third. Every few years, there is talk of bringing the Ten Monkey Derby back, but that's all it is, just talk. Something like the Ten Monkey Derby could never fly now. It was a product of its era, the late 1950s, when Dexter Lake needed a hero, and a monkey on a greyhound answered the call.
Safety concerns would be most people's answer, and they would have a good point. The few attempts to outfit various breeds of dogs with saddles have all ended in humiliation at best, and maiming (and even death) at worst. The 1920s and 1930s in particular are littered with stories of midgets and children trampled by English sheepdogs and rottweilers--greyhounds were always too slender--that didn't take to their saddles.
In time, the dog racing industry accepted that riderless dogs was the way to go, and for many years that was that--until eccentric Michigan-based dog racing magnate "Doghouse" Bradford Holcomb came up with the idea of monkey jockeys in the early 1950s.
As is the case with most revolutions in dog racing, monkey jockeys were an accident. Doghouse Holcomb, owner and manager of Dexter Lake, Michigan's Dexter Downs Racetrack dressed his pet capuchin monkey Talo like a cowboy (complete with boots and spurs) and tied him to the back of a greyhound to promote the rodeo that Dexter Downs was going to be hosting in a few weeks. His plan was to lead Talo and the dog down the homestretch prior to each night's main event accompanied by various monkey-themed announcements touting the rodeo (i.e. "Quit monkeying around and get your tickets for the Dexter Downs Rodeo today!" ; "You're gonna go bananas at the Dexter Downs Rodeo!" and "The Dexter Downs Rodeo is the hottest ticket in town--and that ain't no monkey business!").
Everything was going great until Talo started shooting the cap guns they'd given him. This spooked the greyhound he was riding on, causing him to take off and tear around the track with the now panicked Talo firing off more and more caps, which only served to make the dog run faster.
Well, the crowd loved it.
So much so that the following weekend, Doghouse Holcomb secured the "temporary release" of three more monkeys from the zoo, dressed them all up like bellhops, and hosted the first ever Monkey Derby. This was followed a week later by the first ever All Monkey Steeple Chase for which Doghouse Holcomb played up the steeple theme by dressing two of the monkeys in tuxedos (aka monkey suits) and two in wedding dresses.
It was huge.
A week later, Doghouse Holcomb got his hands on six more monkeys for a total of ten that would race every Saturday night. He named the weekly monkey race the Ten Monkey Derby and made all of his employees say it so that it sounded like the Kentucky Derby.
The audiences must have liked the name because attendance grew every week.
Each Saturday there was a different theme with different costumes: Cops and robbers. Cowboys and Indians. Hobos. Clowns. One week the monkeys were decked out like outlaw bikers. Another week, at the height of the Sputnik era, two of the monkeys were dressed like Soviet cosmonauts, and the other eight in cowboy costumes. (Originally, they were going to be dressed like American astronauts, but the Dexter Downs staff couldn't tell the difference between the cosmonauts and the astronauts, so they figured cowboys was the most obviously American option after astronauts, so that's what they went with.)
To promote the weekly event, Doghouse hired Jimmy Leslie, Dexter Lake's town drunk to wear a gorilla costume and pass out monkey race flyers every Friday afternoon. Every weekend a different high school marching band from the area would play the national anthem at the beginning of the evening and Aba Daba Honeymoon before the Ten Monkey Derby.
The Detroit TV stations all did news segments on it. There was talk about the race going national.
But the deal fell through when on one rainy Saturday night there was a collision in the home stretch that sent two greyhounds and three monkeys to the vet. Many of the children in attendance that night were nearly traumatized by the sight, and their parents were mortified. Who knew monkey racing could be so dangerous?
Although the animals eventually recovered, the Ten Monkey Derby never really did, at least not legitimately. Interest in the race waned, and after a few more weeks of diminishing returns, Doghouse pulled the plug, sending the Dexter Lake monkey racing scene underground.
Now, more than 50 years later, Dexter Downs is run by Doghouse's grandson, Bradford the third. Every few years, there is talk of bringing the Ten Monkey Derby back, but that's all it is, just talk. Something like the Ten Monkey Derby could never fly now. It was a product of its era, the late 1950s, when Dexter Lake needed a hero, and a monkey on a greyhound answered the call.
Monday, June 7, 2010
June 7 - Conversation Overheard on the Way to the Slow Food Festival
Mitchell: Dude, I'm starving. Let's swing through a drive-through.
Kip: Good call, Mitchell.
Kip: Good call, Mitchell.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
June 6 - Marvin Gaye's Girlfriend Vents About How the First Four Notes of Let's Get It On Come On Any Time She Says Anything Remotely Sexual
Seriously, girl.
Every time I say anything even close to double entendre-ish, he looks at me with this sly grin. And then I have no idea where it comes from, but there's just this Wah wah wah wah music, and then it's "Let me love you" this and "Let's get it on" that, and, seriously, I apologize for complaining about my man giving me too much loving and too much attention, but girl, some nights I just want to sleep.
But it ain't easy when your boyfriend is Marvin Gaye. I swear that man takes everything I say as a signal. Like the other night, it was legitimately hot in our apartment. And as kind of a prelude to suggesting we turn on the air, I'm like, "Marvin, do you feel hot?"
Big mistake.
He gives me this Oh no you didn't look and then the Wah wah wah wah music comes on and, well, you know the rest. And I swear I'm not complaining. OK, I guess I kind of am complaining, but still. I can't say anything when he's around because he'll take it that way. Seriously, I keep a list of words I cannot say in his presence. Want to hear them? Bed, hot, wet, position, take, give, wash, enter, smooth, sleep, head, long, simmer, cook, smoke, back door--anyway, you get the idea. The man's a machine. Everything he hears, it makes him think of sex. And don't get me wrong, it was fine at first. Seriously, girl. It was fine. But now? Damn. Let a girl get some rest.
But the really weird part is the music. Girl, I have no idea where it comes from, if he has some sort of button he pushes or what. But any time I say anything that can be taken that way, it just comes out of nowhere. I'll just be like, "Can you put a little honey in my tea?" and then all of a sudden Wah wah wah wah. Or, "Could you crack a couple of eggs? I'm gonna make some bread." Wah wah wah wah. Or my favorite, "Don't go in the kitchen. I just mopped the floor." Wah wah wah wah. Girl, what on earth is sexual about mopping the floor? Nothing.
Ain't a damn thing.
Unless your man is Marvin Gaye.
Every time I say anything even close to double entendre-ish, he looks at me with this sly grin. And then I have no idea where it comes from, but there's just this Wah wah wah wah music, and then it's "Let me love you" this and "Let's get it on" that, and, seriously, I apologize for complaining about my man giving me too much loving and too much attention, but girl, some nights I just want to sleep.
But it ain't easy when your boyfriend is Marvin Gaye. I swear that man takes everything I say as a signal. Like the other night, it was legitimately hot in our apartment. And as kind of a prelude to suggesting we turn on the air, I'm like, "Marvin, do you feel hot?"
Big mistake.
He gives me this Oh no you didn't look and then the Wah wah wah wah music comes on and, well, you know the rest. And I swear I'm not complaining. OK, I guess I kind of am complaining, but still. I can't say anything when he's around because he'll take it that way. Seriously, I keep a list of words I cannot say in his presence. Want to hear them? Bed, hot, wet, position, take, give, wash, enter, smooth, sleep, head, long, simmer, cook, smoke, back door--anyway, you get the idea. The man's a machine. Everything he hears, it makes him think of sex. And don't get me wrong, it was fine at first. Seriously, girl. It was fine. But now? Damn. Let a girl get some rest.
But the really weird part is the music. Girl, I have no idea where it comes from, if he has some sort of button he pushes or what. But any time I say anything that can be taken that way, it just comes out of nowhere. I'll just be like, "Can you put a little honey in my tea?" and then all of a sudden Wah wah wah wah. Or, "Could you crack a couple of eggs? I'm gonna make some bread." Wah wah wah wah. Or my favorite, "Don't go in the kitchen. I just mopped the floor." Wah wah wah wah. Girl, what on earth is sexual about mopping the floor? Nothing.
Ain't a damn thing.
Unless your man is Marvin Gaye.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
June 5 - The Woman That Billy Joel Says May Be Right Effectively Tells Him That She Doesn't Think He's Crazy; She Just Thinks He's a Douche
Listen up, Billy. It is Billy, right? Not Bill or Will. Definitely not William. No self-respecting "crazy" guy would go by such an unabashedly square name. No, not you. It's Billy. Well Billy, you might want to sit down so this news doesn't kick you in the ass too hard, but you know all those times when I said you were crazy? That was sarcasm.
That was sarcasm, you dense boob.
Let me guess. You thought my calling you crazy was really just my roundabout way of telling you how cool and dangerous I thought you were. Like I couldn't openly admit how edgy and therefore hot you were, so I pretended to accuse you of being crazy and self-destructive. Is that it?
Um, no.
It wasn't attraction disguised as contempt. It was mocking disguised as nothing.
Jesus, how much more obvious could I have made it that I was mocking you? All those times when you would get that dorky cocksure smile and say, "You may be right. I may be crazy," I was like, you freaking dork. Do you have no concept of fucking sarcasm? Yeah, like I really thought you were crazy for driving your motorcycle in the rain, just like I thought the fact that you made it home alive only proved you were insane. I only said those things because you called to tell me you made it home OK and I couldn't think of anything else to say. But yeah, no, driving your motorcycle home in a light drizzle does not make you insane, especially if you wear a helmet.
Speaking of last Friday, for the last time, you didn't "crash" my party. You were invited. Jesus, everybody from work was. And yes, I know you were only having fun. And no, it wasn't hurting anyone. Nobody ever said it was. My God, where do you get your ideas? Was it because of the beer? Billy, how many times do I have to tell you? Those were for everyone. Of course, I didn't care that you had as many as you did. Hell, take them all next time for all I care. I don't even like beer.
Then there was all that bragging about walking through Bedford Stuy alone. Yeah, like walking through Bedford Stuy in the middle of the afternoon makes you such a badass. Dude, who fucking cares? My mom walks through Bedford Stuy alone. It's not that rough of a neighborhood. And by the way, no, there's nothing the matter with the clothes you're wearing. Why do you keep asking me that?
Look, you're a nice guy. At least you used to be, and I don't mean that in a "but now you're a lunatic and I need to save you" kind of way. I just mean you were a lot more charming back when you wanted us all to call you the Piano Man. This whole brooding, edgy thing, it doesn't work for you. Go back to being that guy. Go back to being the entertainer.
And for the love of God and all things holy, stop calling me your uptown girl.
That was sarcasm, you dense boob.
Let me guess. You thought my calling you crazy was really just my roundabout way of telling you how cool and dangerous I thought you were. Like I couldn't openly admit how edgy and therefore hot you were, so I pretended to accuse you of being crazy and self-destructive. Is that it?
Um, no.
It wasn't attraction disguised as contempt. It was mocking disguised as nothing.
Jesus, how much more obvious could I have made it that I was mocking you? All those times when you would get that dorky cocksure smile and say, "You may be right. I may be crazy," I was like, you freaking dork. Do you have no concept of fucking sarcasm? Yeah, like I really thought you were crazy for driving your motorcycle in the rain, just like I thought the fact that you made it home alive only proved you were insane. I only said those things because you called to tell me you made it home OK and I couldn't think of anything else to say. But yeah, no, driving your motorcycle home in a light drizzle does not make you insane, especially if you wear a helmet.
Speaking of last Friday, for the last time, you didn't "crash" my party. You were invited. Jesus, everybody from work was. And yes, I know you were only having fun. And no, it wasn't hurting anyone. Nobody ever said it was. My God, where do you get your ideas? Was it because of the beer? Billy, how many times do I have to tell you? Those were for everyone. Of course, I didn't care that you had as many as you did. Hell, take them all next time for all I care. I don't even like beer.
Then there was all that bragging about walking through Bedford Stuy alone. Yeah, like walking through Bedford Stuy in the middle of the afternoon makes you such a badass. Dude, who fucking cares? My mom walks through Bedford Stuy alone. It's not that rough of a neighborhood. And by the way, no, there's nothing the matter with the clothes you're wearing. Why do you keep asking me that?
Look, you're a nice guy. At least you used to be, and I don't mean that in a "but now you're a lunatic and I need to save you" kind of way. I just mean you were a lot more charming back when you wanted us all to call you the Piano Man. This whole brooding, edgy thing, it doesn't work for you. Go back to being that guy. Go back to being the entertainer.
And for the love of God and all things holy, stop calling me your uptown girl.
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