Ah, Good Friday & Crucifixon Hangover

Easter weekend is one of my favorite weekends of the year. I'm blogging right now on my Blackberry from the bright lights of the Philipines. I've come to be crucified -- you know, they have this fantastic tourist-draw in which pilgrims are nailed to actual crosses with actual nails by guys with actual hammers -- and I'm currently waiting in line for my turn. It seemed uncouth to bring a book to read in line (other than the Bible, that is) so I'm covertly blogging. There's enough commotion around me -- hordes of self-flaggelators, rosary-praying pilgrims and, of course, the monstrous screams from the people currently being crucified -- to distract people from noticing me. Truthfully? I can't abide their screams. Either be crucified like a man -- quiet and dignified, like Jesus -- or fuck off and stay home and watch The Song of Bernadette on AMC.

Anyhow, while waiting for my turn under the hammer, I wanted to blog about something I've been thinking about lately:

Global warming and why is it that religious people absolutely refuse to acknowledge such a thing exists? The other day our local weather man was saying as a lead-in to his forecast that there have been other warming periods in the history of the world that were not caused by man. Interesting. I'd like to read more about that. But until then, how can anyone dispute that our factories and cars and all the shit they spew into the air isn't having a negative effect on the world that sustains us? I'm no alarmist and I'm certainly no activist. When I heard the latest about the melting icecaps, I thought, "Well, at least we don't have to worry about them getting so large as to spin the world the wrong way on its axis." I guess that happened millennia ago -- archaeologists have found wooly mammoths under arctic ice with wild flowers undigested in their stomachs, suggesting that the wooly mammoths had gone from a warm climate to a cold one in a very, very short time.

Regarding global warming, my born-again Christian neighbor said to me, "Well, I believe that god has a plan." By that reasoning, I ought to go out and become a heroin addict, shoplift and shoot-up the rest of my life because what's the point in exercising freewill? God has a plan. Like most things my born-again neighbor has said to me, I think this is bullshit.

So, is this the reason global warming can't exist -- even though it's quite apparent that it does? Because god has a plan?

There were a couple of other things that I wanted to air, but my turn has come in line. Have a great Easter! I know that I will.

Crucifixon Hangover
I'm blogging from the Philipines with my Blackberry on voice-recognition mode. It hangs around my neck like Soap on a Rope.

Before coming here, my chiropractor gave me a schematic made from an x-ray of my hands. He marked up the image to show where the nail was to be hammered through me in order not to aggravate my carpal tunnel syndrome. When my turn came to be crucified, I handed the schematic to my hammer-er. The bastard wiped the sweat from his forehead with it, then pounded me onto the cross. I'm no chiropractor, but I think he did less than a delicate job of it.

My first impression upon being crucified -- as my cross and I were raised into an upright position -- was an overwhelming sense of being a piece of furniture. I wished I had brought windchimes to hang off the ends of the crossbeam.

My cross faced the direction opposite to that from which I entered the crucifixion area. And so it was more than a little disheartening to see hotdog and ice cream stands over there. And a souvenir shop called St. Martin's Souvenirs. I'd had lasik eye surgery not long before my overseas trip and I saw quite clearly the Padre Pia placemats and plastic Jesus statues displayed in the front windows. There were candles of every size for sale. Figures of saints and angels were lined up like superheroes, and holy water receptacles with the images of peoples' favorite saints or biblical figures on them.

The sight of all this shit was like an electric charge in the nails piercing my hands and feet.

I thought about how much money I spent on my plane ticket to the Philipines, taxi fare from the airport, the clothes I wore that were ruined with blood stains. And I wondered what kind of long weekend I could have had in Las Vegas for the same amount of money -- and no wounds to slow me down at my keyboard.

As I sit in this train station, dictating on my Blackberry, my hands wrapped in Shroud of Turin dishtowels, I'm beginning to think that this is one of the stupidest vacations I've ever taken. Christ, my hands are so fucked up, I couldn't even unwrap a chocolate egg if any of the unsmiling people around me offered one.