Sunday, March 20, 2005
The Passion of the Jay
Today was Palm Sunday, the day when those of us who are lucky enough to be Catholic get an extra helping of church so that the story of Christ getting his ass kicked can be related in all its glory. This year my church made the unconventional choice of having an Asian woman read all of the Christ lines, which I thought was fun, if somewhat reminiscent of a community college production of Godspell. Of course, it could never top the year that my crazy-eyed college priest decided it would be much "hipper" for all of us "kids" if he sang the entire passion. I still have nightmares about that one, which for some reason feature Rue McClanahan.
But my suffering for the day was certainly not limited to the ecclesiastical kind. I had to go in to work and decided I would drive downtown, which resulted in about twenty minutes of circling my office building and swearing. One of my favorite things about downtown Chicago is the stunning mosaic of parking restrictions, whereby a single block can be filled with fifteen or twenty tiny-lettered signs warning "parking for Kabbalah practitioners only" or "no standing on Sundays during a full moon" or simply "fuck you." I couldn’t help but feel that the psychotic honking his horn in the Volvo behind me didn’t really appreciate my attempts to decipher these regulations. Luckily the middle finger I flipped him itself required very little deciphering.
My work itself was the sort of redundant, mind-numbing paperwork that so artfully combines the soullessness of office life with the carpal-tunnel possibilities of a factory floor. I did get the thrill of having the water cooler all to myself, but that actually managed to wear off before my cup was even full. And somehow the water cooler conversation seemed so much duller when it was just me talking to myself. Go figure.
Anyway, I’m home now and Arrested Development is coming on, so I think I’ll take off the crown of thorns and kick back for a bit. Happy Christ punching!
Today was Palm Sunday, the day when those of us who are lucky enough to be Catholic get an extra helping of church so that the story of Christ getting his ass kicked can be related in all its glory. This year my church made the unconventional choice of having an Asian woman read all of the Christ lines, which I thought was fun, if somewhat reminiscent of a community college production of Godspell. Of course, it could never top the year that my crazy-eyed college priest decided it would be much "hipper" for all of us "kids" if he sang the entire passion. I still have nightmares about that one, which for some reason feature Rue McClanahan.
But my suffering for the day was certainly not limited to the ecclesiastical kind. I had to go in to work and decided I would drive downtown, which resulted in about twenty minutes of circling my office building and swearing. One of my favorite things about downtown Chicago is the stunning mosaic of parking restrictions, whereby a single block can be filled with fifteen or twenty tiny-lettered signs warning "parking for Kabbalah practitioners only" or "no standing on Sundays during a full moon" or simply "fuck you." I couldn’t help but feel that the psychotic honking his horn in the Volvo behind me didn’t really appreciate my attempts to decipher these regulations. Luckily the middle finger I flipped him itself required very little deciphering.
My work itself was the sort of redundant, mind-numbing paperwork that so artfully combines the soullessness of office life with the carpal-tunnel possibilities of a factory floor. I did get the thrill of having the water cooler all to myself, but that actually managed to wear off before my cup was even full. And somehow the water cooler conversation seemed so much duller when it was just me talking to myself. Go figure.
Anyway, I’m home now and Arrested Development is coming on, so I think I’ll take off the crown of thorns and kick back for a bit. Happy Christ punching!
