The origins of #InappropriateChurchTweets

So I’m still in a crappy mood – but I’m attributing today much more to the killer headache than the fact that Tuesday sucks donkey balls.

It’s Holy Week, which is just a super busy time for a non-believer¹ who masturbates plays with his organ. Since I’m going at a very different schedule, and since “Palm Sunday” is really enough to make the inner 12 year old in me snicker, I thought I’d talk about the very origins of #inappropriateChurchTweet Theater. As you might expect, no small bit of heresy follows.

And then, one Thursday, nearly two thousand years after one man had been nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change…

Douglass Adams, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

Inappropriate Church Tweets actually started when I was in high school. In addition to being abnormally tall, I was actually a very competent bassist from an early age. In 8th grade, I was invited play bass for a production of No No Nanette at a local all-girls Catholic school. Yes, an 8th grade boy was not only invited to the land of pleated, plaid skirts…but was paid to go.

I was certainly an awkward boy, but I was quite tall and, truthfully mature for my age (despite how this may appear today). I played that show, had a great time², and went back year after year. Junior year of high school, I borrowed my parents’ station wagon (’cause that’s how I rolled . . . though, honestly, transporting a bass about greatly limited your automotive options) and went to the cast party following St. Elizabeth’s production of Annie. By this point, I can honestly say that I was friends with much of the cast, having played several shows together.

I made the rounds for a little bit, saying goodbye to the seniors that were going onto college, chatting with a former classmate of mine who left public school to attend a private school and was originally cast as Rooster but was kicked out of the show for bringing pot to rehearsal, and flirting with anyone who would make eye contact (because, hey, I’m me).

Rita actually sought me out. She was a sophomore (short, cute, with curly brown hair and eyes that would simply make someone melt) who ended up in a bunch of scenes with only first-years (because “freshmen” doesn’t really work as a title at an all-girl’s school), and somehow got lumped together with them . . . Much like in Dazed & Confused, girls can be bitches. There was some catty year-hierarchy stuff going on and being with an outsider boy allowed Rita to stay above it all.

That’s what I love about these high school girls, man. I get older, they stay the same age.

Matthew McConaughey as Wooderson, Dazed & Confused

At some point, the party discussion topic turned to Zima (because Zima wasn’t detectable on your breath, apparently, if you were pulled over by the cops), and I mentioned that I didn’t want to end up arrested – my parents were uptight enough about me “staying out late” with the car. Well, Rita asked if she could have a ride home . . . and, wouldn’t you know, I was gallant enough to offer.

She liked one of the songs that was playing on the radio as we drove, but turned the tuner knob instead of the volume knob to turn things up. I went to turn the volume knob as she did. Our fingers interlocked…we listened to news radio for awhile. I happened to ask what time she had to be back home, and we had two hours. I had two & a half hours. I asked her if she wanted to head straight home, and she said no.

We found a parking lot.

It turns out that the front passenger seat of an early-90’s Ford Taurus station wagon reclined fully, and wasn’t so uncomfortable that two high schoolers without any other options wouldn’t make use of it.

After an extensive game of tonsil-hockey, we started our way back to her place, and we started talking about plans for the next day, Sunday. I mentioned that I was filling on the organ for the church organist, but that my lack of sleep probably wouldn’t affect how I played because “good memories trumped good dreams any day.”

“Just how many instruments do you play?” she asked.
“Well, there’s the bass, and piano. And organ if you want to count that separately” I responded.
“Just the bass that’s in the back?” she, again, asked.
“No, I play both upright and bass guitar.”

Rita started cracking up. Guffawing. I was perplexed.

“You play with your upright on Saturday night, and then you play with your organ all day Sunday?” she managed to get out. “And, something tells me you’ve ventured a go or two with the old skin flute!”

I blushed.

We drove the rest of the way to her place (we ended up having to drive back to St. Elizabeth’s because that’s the only place she reliably knew directions from) hand-in-hand, chuckling.

As we kissed goodnight, her hand brushed the outline of my, um, skin-flute. “Think of me as you’re busy playing your organ at church tomorrow” she whispered in my ear.

I’ve yet to be able to play with my organ and not think back to the night.

Rita shows up in a single, significant story in my life . . . a few people know of my “admitting I’m an asshole” story, and I’ll post the whole story here, hopefully sooner than later, but just beware that, when you read it, I’m not quite the same person anymore.

When I say this week is crazy, I mean this week is crazy. On top of my regular attendance at the nudie bar work, I have to sit through choir rehearsals and then church services, Tweeting inappropriately³, Tuesday and Friday nights. Monday had me at symphony practice, and I have band practice Thursday. Tonight, we start swimming lessons – with the kids. Here’s to hoping that “extended splash time in the really, really big tub” wears them out so that I might get more than the 3-4 hours of sleep I’m getting per night.

¹ Don’t get me wrong, I think Jesus of Nazareth existed and was a really, really great guy. I think we, as humans, would benefit by doing more of what he said. But, I think organized religion commonly misconstrues Christ’s lessons to fit their own agenda, leaving the “be good to each other” lesson that, really should be the tenet of Christianity, left behind. The vision I have of Christ would be slightly amused that people get out of bed on Sundays to worship him, and would be downright angry at most of what’s done “in his name.” My version of Christ would also text me #inappropriateChurchTweet recommendations, cause we’d be tight like that. I’m still not sure if I’d bug him about my fear that he’s a zombie, though – I don’t know how he’d take that.

² I also found out that girls actually think about/want sex during my first year doing the musical at St. Elizabeth’s, though I’m absolutely failing on how I’ll write that tale as a blog post…but the story deserves its own blog post, so I’ll merely tease about it here.

³ This may come as a shock, but I’m actually glad the choir season is over (I don’t play organ during the summer, except for weddings). While it sure is fun to think dirty thoughts while sitting at the organ, I do that anyway. With the tweeting, I’m simply running out of fresh content. A few months off will hopefully give me some new inspiration and/or make the old #inappropriateChurchTweet theater entries dusty enough in people’s minds that I can safely re-use them.