Conservative Catholic Book (2 of 5): Seminary memories.

From Michael S. Rose’s “Goodbye! Good Men: How Catholic Seminaries Turned Away Two Generations of Vocations from the Priesthood” (2002) (p. 93):

Father John Trigilio of the Harrisburg, Pennsylvania diocese remembers visiting St. Mary’s in Baltimore when he was a seminarian in Pennsylvania.  “There was no discretion at all,” he said of the gay subculture there.  “The few times I was there, some of the seminarians would literally dress like gays from the Village.  They would even go so far as to wear pink silk; it was like going to see ‘La Cage Aux Folles’.”

. . .

Conservative Catholic Book (1 of 5): Seminary nicknames.

From Michael S. Rose’s “Goodbye! Good Men: How Catholic Seminaries Turned Away Two Generations of Vocations from the Priesthood” (2002) (p. 92):

According to former seminarians and recently ordained priests, this “gay subculture” is so prominent at certain seminaries that these institutions have earned nicknames such as Notre Flame (for Notre Dame Seminary in New Orleans) and Theological Closet (for Theological College at the Catholic University of America in Washington D.C.).  St. Mary’s Seminary in Baltimore has earned the nicknamed, “The Pink Palace.”

. . .

Breast cancer.

So my mom found out last month from a mammogram that she had a small tumor in her breast, and got it removed, and then signed up for a precautionary mastectomy at her doctor’s advice.

When she talked to my godmother Marge, she was like, “Well, at least I can go walk at the fairgrounds every year.”

(For some cancer walk or something, she meant).

“Oh honey,” Marge was like, “I’d be there if I were you, and I’d be walking lopsided!”.

(Marge has big tits.)

Marge’s daughter is getting married, and during that same conversation, Marge mentioned that her daughter got the last Vera Wang gown of this style she wanted, and it fit perfectly and needed no alterations and only cost $300 instead of a thousand dollars.

“Oh honey,” Marge was like, “I couldn’t sign that check fast enough.”

Trayvon rally.

The other month I went to the Trayvon rally downtown, which I guess was 1 of over a 100 rallies nationwide.

I missed the first two-thirds of the rally, but there were still a ton of (black) people (mostly) when I arrived.

In a break between speakers, this (black) woman who I was standing next to turned to me and was like, “Thank you so much for coming.”

After the end of the rally, I spoke with a couple (black) teachers union people who were there in union t-shirts and was asking them about some other protest that their union was putting on that I had gotten an email about.

They hadn’t heard of it, and so we started talking about this and that and eventually about Trayvon.

“I’m pissed,” I was like.  “I can’t believe this shit is happening.  Actually, I can believe it, but I don’t want it to be happening.” 

They totally agreed, and when I said it’s too bad that people weren’t out in the streets more so they could get more attention, adding “though not for breaking windows and shit, though maybe,” the one (black) woman was like, “A lot of people feel like breaking stuff right now,” but said to do that just made (black) people look bad.

“And how about handing bricks to the white guy who’s pissed?”, I was like, and the women both laughed.

(Black) bar with no sign out front.

Just south of campus along a main road there’s this one (black) bar with no sign out front, though a lot of neon beer signs in the window.

So, I biked over from campus one evening (hitting a few other bars up first) and ended up at that bar, locking my bike up out front.

Inside was a barebones bare-walled dive bar with a DJ booth and a dance floor, and this (younger) (fatter) (really dark) (black) kid playing disco and house music from the DJ booth.

There were a few (black) men at the bar, and a (younger) (black) woman tending bar, and this (older) (light-skinned) (big frizzy bleached haired) (black) woman at the end of the bar, intently doing something on her iPhone and drinking out of a goblet.

After I got my drink, the DJ put on a disco medley, and people really started grooving, and me and the bartender were singing along on the choruses and being all like “Ring my bell!”.

Then, “Disco Inferno” came on, and we started being like “burn baby burn” with the chorus, but when the 2^nd verse came on, the (older) (light-skinned) (big frizzy bleached haired) (black) woman at the end of the bar started loudly singing the lyrics of the verse, never even taking her eyes off her iPhone, and she did that for the next verse too, never even looking up or anyhow interacting with anyone else.

Later, when the music got more house, these (black) guys down the bar got in a debate over why when (black) people finally get a nice job, they always have to go buy a house and a Cadillac.

“Why a Cadillac?”, the guy was like.

“Because it’s a nice ride,” the (older) (light-skinned) (big frizzy bleached haired) (black) woman butted in, shouting down at them from the other end of the bar.   “Big car, nice ride.”  Then, she threw up her hands in the air.  “I’m just saying!”

Then, she was like, “Same thing with men, the bigger the man, the nicer the ride.  Big man, nice ride.”  Then, she threw up her hands in the air again.  “I’m just saying!”

I later found out that she was the owner, and named the bar after a tropical bird because the bird’s plumage is her favorite color.

Bike horn.

The other day when I was riding my bike toward the lakefront this younger (Spanish-speaking) (Mexican) couple and I were stopped by the light and had to wait for traffic lights to ride across and get on the main trail.

As we were stopped, the guy of the couple honked his old-fashioned bike horn at the passing traffic, which made me and the girl laugh, since the sound was old and ridiculous, like from a horn from out of a Marx Brothers movie.

“Tamales tamales tamales!’ he then added in a sing-songy voice and heavy Mexican accent, making us laugh even more, especially the girl.