I was at a rather large and rather fancy in it’s ostentatious plainess (if you follow my drift) church in Madison (I think) for a regular service. The congreagation was all hip in in it’s low-keyed down-to-earthness and asking big questions of itself like “Why aren’t there any black people here? We need black people so we can be diverse.”

I waited for the service to end because there’s very little that’l make a guy more self conscious than standing up and leaving church in the middle of a very nice congreagation that tries very hard to be very open and very accepting in it’s very wealthy little way.

Finally, the priest ended, the service ended, and I was going to slip out in the huge throng of people headed for the door. But then some little old lady started talking to the priest, telling this earnest, young, sandy-haired, smock-bedecked guy how *lovely* his sermon was and how everything he said just *resonated* with her.

I waited. I figited. Then I left. Over the tops of the pews. In my wool socks.

One young woman turned to her mother and said, “Interesting. I never knew that was an option.”

The Boat

Meg met me outside the church with the van, the Bub, a couple of dogs, and assorted stuff. Apparently, we were on vacation or something. We decided we really wanted to go fart around on the lake in some sort of watercraft, but had no connections and not enough money to go pay the outrageous rent for a half-day on the water in someone else’s boat.

A Pottery Barn couple came past us while we were talking about wanting to use a boat and overheard us. She, daintily petite and dressed in her tennis togs, turned to him, chiseled and heroish, and also dressed in tennis togs, and said, “Oh honey, they should use the club boat. No one else will be using it, and the pastor said we should be kind to those who are less fortunate.”

The guy brought me over to the club’s shed next to the tennis court that we had been convienently standing next to, and brought out this tandem sailing sea kayak and the gear. It was on a trailer and while the van has a hitch, he wouldn’t let me take the trailer. “No, no, just carry it over to the lake,” he said.

With practised ease, I hefted the boat over my shoulder and headed for the student union.

The Piss

The Union was full of students, all these young people milling around looking rather chic. Meg and I no longer had the boat, but were looking for prime waterfront seating while we ate. We passed vendor after vendor, booth upon booth, until we finally sat down at a table that already had some folks at it.

“Hey, here we finally are,” I said. “It took us a long time to find you, but we made it.” Meanwhile, of course, the people are just staring at us like we’re sprouting second heads in their midst. But they’re too polite to actually ask who the hell we are, so they play along like they’ve been expecting us.

Finally, mid meal, I need to use the bathroom, and apparently Meg does as well. I asked our companions where the nearest bathroom is and they point me down the hall and tell me to just keep an eye out for the signs. The first bathroom sign I saw pointed to a prothesis lab. I didn’t have the guts to go in there, so we continued down the cooridor and around the corner back into the thronging students.

Finally, we ended up at a McDonalds stand in the middle of the union where some guy was trying to buy a Coke and a small fry. “That’ll be $46, please,” the counter girl said in her well-practiced souless monotone. “What?” The guy freaked out. “Oh wait. Sorry. Yep, I did have fries, too. Good thing I brought my credit card.”