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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, you stunning animal.
Highway To Hell 14-March-2005
Last night when I was groggily getting ready for bed, I remembered this goofy incident that happened some years ago when I was attempting to adopt a kitten. I left a message for a woman who had placed an ad in the paper regarding kittens available for adoption. She called me back when I wasn't home and left a message. When I returned her call, she asked me a series of questions, which I thought was nice because she was looking out for the welfare of the kitten I was hoping to adopt. Then she asked if I was a devil worshipper.
"Oh my God, no. Why do you ask?"
"Well, it's that music you have on your answering machine. It's a little...weird. I don't know, I just don't want to be giving away any of these kittens to anyone who's weird."
This was when I was younger and therefore inclined to have music playing on my outgoing message, you know, 'cause it's dramatic and shit. I have grown up since then: now I just have the sound of mating barracudas on the machine, which I find tends to put people right at ease. The song in question was Melissa Etheridge's "Bring Me Some Water," which as you know is loaded with devil-loving rhetoric. That line "Sweet devil's got my soul" must have been what clued her in on the sinister forces at work. I explained that Melissa was a harmless and talented singer-songwriter and that there was nothing to fear. I even explained what the song was about. But she wouldn't budge—the devil questions continued, and I'm pretty sure I told her to screw off a number of different ways before hanging up the telephone.
Now, this reminds me of Mr. Snorter, the name I have lovingly given my Bible teacher from the Christian private school my sister and I attended for three years. Grades five, six, and seven for me. They had a pressed wood paddle that was 48 square inches or larger and about three inches thick, and every parent had to approve the possibility of their child being spanked with this monster in the event of the child's wrongdoing, or their kid would not be accepted into the school. Our folks figured we would never get close to that experience and thankfully they were right. Other kids were not so lucky. The angry, nowhere-near-God principal, Mr. Fineline, swatted a kid so hard one time the poor kid flew through the window. Shattered glass everywhere, and the boy had to go to the hospital. Mr. Fineline was replaced.
Mr. Snorter had the most amazing spare tire I have ever seen. I would look at his belly and imagine the make of the tire. Micheline? Maybe. Sometimes I pictured him without the tire, vacationing at a river somewhere, floating on an inner tube. And then something would happen causing him to swallow the inner tube (it's not as uncommon as you'd think), hence the circular appendage. However it got there, there it was, and sometimes the stories I would come up with to explain it were a nice distraction from the constant Bible verses packed with the words of an angry god I was pretty sure would never love me.
I recall with excruciating clarity the day Mr. Snorter condemned us to hell for masturbating.
"God will not tolerate masturbation, and you will not be welcome in His kingdom. You know what masturbation is? It's when you touch your own genitals and give yourself sexual pleasure." He was speaking to a classroom of pubescent seventh grade kids. Christ, you could have scraped the shame off the floor. Kids were looking around at other kids, perhaps hoping to see the same humiliation they were feeling so they wouldn't feel alone in their hell-bound mortification. I looked at my friend Cindy, who either had one of the best poker faces going or she was clueless to the delight of that particular sin. My face felt prickly hot as I tried to appear apathetic and free of iniquity. Then Mr. Snorter said something that still grosses me right the hell out to this day.
"I tried it once and ran away from it like a pig from bacon."
Ew. And he turned about as pink as a pig when he added that profoundly disturbing tidbit. Nobody should have to be subjected to the mental picture of Mr. Snorter going to town all by himself. And besides, he had provided us with some inaccurate information, because just about everyone knows a pig will eat bacon if offered. Can't pull the wool over this pubescent pervert's eyes. I didn't believe for a second he ran from the bacon; he simply chose to feed us that line of crap in an attempt to create some facade of piousness. It is entirely possible that spare tire of his sprouted out of guilt; his body's way of preventing him from being able to reach his bacon.
Another time we discussed the satanic influence of music. Rush, Ozzy Osbourne, Styx, AC/DC and countless others, all spouting Satan's gospel. Kids were throwing out names of cherished musicians and Snorter would catch them midair like a pro and declare them evil, most likely without ever having listened to the music. Not one query turned out optimistic. I wondered what he would say to one of my suggestions, so I tossed it out there.
"What about Anne Murray?" I was a huge fan of her velvety-rich alto voice, and simply knew I would break the chain of condemnation with this offering. She was, after all, somebody's mother, who happened to sing innocuous, pretty songs of love.
"Well..." he said, futzing around in the atmosphere for a few seconds, then turning his back to me, "Anne has a beautiful voice but her songs are the work of the devil."
"Anne Murray? How is 'You Needed Me' satanic?" I couldn't believe my ears.
"Her music drives people to have premarital sex. Listen, I know you kids don't want to hear this stuff, but it's true. The devil will find any way he can to tempt you into sinning. You can't be too careful with music."
I inquired about Barbra Streisand, The Carpenters, Olivia Newton-John—just more music in the name of hell.
All this from the same man who taught an extensive class on music history which was utterly fascinating. Classical, Cole Porter, Gershwin, Glenn Miller, Billy Rose, Nat King Cole, Tin Pan Alley, Your Hit Parade—all the good stuff. That is where I discovered Fanny Brice lurking between the baptism tub and the pulpit.
And that was the year I discovered that the singing voice I had always hoped for was a reality. Snorter enjoyed hearing me sing in choir class, but held something back just out of reach. Maybe he was silently lamenting my inevitable future as a Satan-crazed musician. He probably took a bath in holy water after I sang that Barbra Streisand tune "Songbird" that time for a final grade in choir. Such evil, dark lyrics, all about a songbird singing from the heart. Really makes me want to screw someone out of wedlock.
So, enjoy your music but remember to keep your distance. You never know when Gwen Stefani will be at your door with a pitchfork waiting to rip your soul out of your body.
Quote From My World
"Don't swear on your life."
"Then don't make me say stupid shit."
Well, I'm off to explore other options. I have no idea what I mean by that but, my God, it sounds official. Thanks for reading.
Linda
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