Sit Down Comedy … May 31st, 2019

Jonathots Daily Blog

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My definition of awkward: finding myself in an uncomfortable situation and then doing something dopey to try and fit in.

A Convention of Clowns

This happened to me many years ago when a friend invited me to a convention of clowns. (No—I mean real clowns. Not a metaphor.)

I arrived, walked in and realized there were over a hundred people there, give or take a dozen—all dressed as clowns.

Suddenly all the eyes of the room fell on me, with a combination of bewilderment and pity. I felt stupid—not because I was in a convention of clowns and they were all suited in their garb, but because I was insecure that I was not part of what was going on.

Awkward

One of the clowns walked up and handed me a red nose—an extra he traveled with. As I slid it on my nose, he stood back, and about fifteen surrounding souls with floppy shoes applauded me. I’m so ashamed to admit it, but I felt better. Donning the comical beezer at least made me look like I was a respectable participant.

Several months later the same thing happened when I was invited by a friend to a Pentecostal church. The music began and suddenly everybody rose to their feet, lifting their arms and talking in some unknown language which I did not comprehend.  Slowly I inched my way to my feet to join them. I tried lifting my arms but after a few moments they ached. And then, doggone it, I felt so out of place and so frightened that everybody was peering at me, that I pretended to mumble words to imitate theirs.

I felt so phony—but I didn’t want to be the “odd tongue out.”

Then a good friend of mine, Mike, asked me to go to a convention hall to see big time wrestling. Honestly, I’d never even watched it on television. Everyone around me was clad as their favorite character, screaming, pleading for blood and mayhem. Mike kept glancing over at me, wondering if I was going to catch on and join in. Eventually I did find a wrestler I favored and shouted a couple of inane words of encouragement his way.

Yes—not that different from attending a political rally with my friend, Linda. She was really sold out on the candidate. At the time, I was really sold out on her. Signs, slogans, speeches—even a small marching band—bombarded my ears and collided in my brain, pleading with me to cast my support.

I did a little. I hated myself for it. Well, maybe not hated—I just wondered why I still possessed this weakness—a need for some sort of acceptance, even when I was in an environment that was completely alien.

That’s the way I feel today.

I no longer recognize America.

The screaming, the cursing, the ignorance and the self-righteousness that encircle me is tempting me to make an awkward step to blend.

I don’t know how to do it. I don’t want to do it.

Dammit, I despise you Republicans for what you stand for and your arrogance.

And screw you, Democrats, for having a superior attitude to the world around you.

I feel my country has been absorbed by a cult of pirates who want to swash-buckle their way into fame and fortune.

If I resist, I fear they will make me walk the plank, pushing me off to drown in the deepest sea of despair.

How much volume can my voice have in a country full of shouters?

I don’t know.

But just as I was not a clown, a tongue-talker, a wrestling fan or a political enthusiast, I am also not part of this abduction that has happened in my nation.

I will try to be strong and not find a dopey way to slink into the shadows of sameness. 

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Jesonian: Reverend Meningsbee (Part 25) Go Help Someone Else … October 16th, 2016

 Jonathots Daily Blog

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Meningsbee had always found it much easier to memorize the Beatitudes than to adhere to them.

Along with his “wayward wishings on the Web,” he seemed to have an inability to express consideration to other Earthlings. He didn’t feel animosity, just found that fellowshipping was better performed, in his mind, by reading a fine book.

When he woke up on Wednesday, it struck him that he had not interacted with Matrisse and little Hapsy for some time.

Guilt settled in.

Like many mortals, Meningsbee pretended to despise guilt, but often welcomed it as a warm comforter for a chilled thought. So the first thing he did was incriminate himself for failing to be in contact, and treating Matrisse like she was a drop-off center for abandoned children.

He fussed over that for a season, nearly sprouting a tear, and then was able to don appropriate pastoral garb and head off to her house. The activity did lift his spirits, and he began to feel like a preacher again. After all, when you stand behind the holy desk and thunder everlasting truths, it is good to give a damn about souls.

He arrived at the house, took a deep breath, and exited his car. As he walked up the steps to offer solace and comfort to Matrisse, the door flung open in front of him and there she was–squared off, staring at him as if some monster had invaded her porch.

“What do you want?” she challenged.

Stunned, he tried to respond. “I just came over…”

She interrupted. “You came over here because you’re a parson–and think you should interfere in people’s lives when they haven’t asked for your help.”

He paused, surprised, because she had pretty much nailed the situation. That’s exactly what he thought.

She continued. “Listen, Reverend, I’m not like other people. It’s not as if I despise them for being weak, but my thought is, I go to church to take the Word, to answer my questions, to create the sentences for me to go out and make a statement. I don’t cry a lot, but I also don’t bitch. I don’t fuss with other people, especially if they decide to learn their lesson and not fuss with me. And I don’t judge a young girl who had a baby because she forgot how to close her legs, who right now would rather be just a lost child herself. Hapsy seems happy. I feed her. I love her. She laughs. She thinks I have a big belly. So I pretend my stomach can talk, using my belly button as a mouth. She thinks that’s hilarious. I am not looking for help and most certainly–dear God–I’m not looking for pity or the wise words of some seminarian who spent too much time at the library. Let me take the message you preach on Sunday and act it out–so this little girl has a chance to be something other than a stripper, or a nervous sermon-maker.”

She took time out to breathe, glaring at Meningsbee, content she had made her point. He thought about explaining his motivations or trying to convey to her the need to let the community of believers share in her struggle, or just allowing him fifteen minutes to come inside and have a cup of her most delicious tea.

But he waited too long, because Matrisse punctuated her soliloquy with one final thought. This one was a little more tender.

“Listen, Richard. Why don’t you…”

She paused, leaning forward, changing over to a whisper.

“Go…find…someone…else…to help.”

Richard–Reverend Meningsbee–the Shepherd of the Garsonville Church–agreed.

He smiled, turned on his heel and walked back to his car.

As he climbed in, he thought, if the world had been filled with folks like Matrisse, Jesus could have retired instead of being buried by his critics.

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