Can you see Jesus and Mary on this pancake?

There was a loud knock at the door, so I got up off the couch and opened it. To my surprise, Jesus was standing on the porch, looking a little tired.

“Jesus! What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I was just in the neighborhood, Bo. Thought I’d stop by and see how the family’s doing.”

“We’re fine. But don’t stand out there in the hot sun–come in where it’s cool. It’s fall, but you wouldn’t know it by the weather. We’ve got the AC on.”

“Hey, thanks. Give me a second to shake the dust off my feet. I’ve been walking all day.” Jesus stomped his feet on the concrete and brushed his sandals on the welcome mat. Then he stepped inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the relatively dim light inside.

“Excuse the house. It’s a mess. It’s always a mess, to be honest.”

“No worries. It’s just nice to get out of the heat. Shouldn’t be so hot this time of year. Global warming, I’m sorry to say. You guys have really screwed it up. Anyway, you should see my dad’s place. It may be a heavenly mansion, but it looks like hell. I know the guy’s busy, but I swear he never cleans the bathroom or folds the linens. What’s the point of having all those snow-white linens around if you don’t fold them?  Anyway, the place is a total bachelor pad. No wonder he never really got a wife. I’ve told him to ask the angels for help, but he insists on doing it all himself. Talk about independent–that dude’s as stubborn as a mule. Or maybe I should say donkey, huh?”

“You’re a funny guy, Jesus. Look, sit down. Use the recliner and take a load off your feet. Would you like something cold to drink? Water? Tea? A soda?”

“You wouldn’t have a cold one in the fridge, would you?”

“A beer? You drink beer?”

“Sure. Wine, beer. Sometimes after a really hard day arguing with that bonehead Glenn Beck or the church clergy, I even like to relax with a little gin and tonic. Sapphire Bombay, if I can get it. Good stuff. And you should’ve seen the Johnson wedding last weekend. I brought the wine. Not the cheap stuff, either.  Everybody had a great time. But I don’t much like light beer, if that’s all you’ve got. That crap’s worse than watered-down goat piss.”

I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.

“I’ve got a Fat Tire,” I shouted. “Or a Guinness. Your choice.”

“Guinness, thanks. The Irish know what they’re doing when it comes to beer. It’s a meal in a can.”

“Guinness it is.” I tossed him a can. It popped when he pulled the tab, and a little of the creamy foam spilled over the lip onto his hands. He licked his fingers, and wiped them dry on his robe. Then he took a long, deep draft, breathing hard and smacking his lips when he was done.

“That’s nice,” he said, smiling as he leaned back into the recliner. “So, what’s up?”

“Not much. Lazy day for me. Ruth and kids are out shopping for shoes. I had yard work, but I’m watching the game instead. Later, we thought we’d go out to eat.”

“Who’s playing?”

“Notre Dame. They’ve got the Blue Devils.”

“Guess I’ll have to take Notre Dame, then. Ha!”

“Like I said, you’re a funny guy, Jesus.”

******************************

The Holy Cheeto.

It was a good game. The teams were pretty evenly matched, but in the final 2 minutes of the fourth quarter, it was 26-20 Blue Devils. The fightin’ Irish had possession, though, and they took the ball down to the 32-yard line with one timeout and a fourth down to go. Then the quarterback threw a Hail Mary pass. I didn’t think it would work – it never works – but for once it did. The kicker finished off the extra point for the win, and Notre Dame’s fans went wild.

I stared at Jesus, incredulous.

“What?” he said, smiling.

“Did you do that?” I asked.

“No! I’m just having a beer with my friend Boaz and watching the game.”

I raised an eyebrow and stared at Jesus straight in the face, still suspicious.

“No, really. I never call a game. Takes all the fun out of it for me.”

“Uh, huh.”

“No, really! Wars and political elections, sometimes, sure, OK, I admit it. We’ve got prophecies to fulfill. But not football games. I mean, come on, it’s just a game.”

About that time, my wife returned home with the kids.

“Jesus!” She dropped the plastic bags she was carrying and ran to give him a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I traveled to Colorado Springs earlier this week to thank Dobson for retiring. That bag of wind’s been a real thorn in my side for years now. He’s all law and no grace. For years, I’ve been telling him, ‘Jim, don’t go through life with a stick up your butt. Relax a little. Smile. Strike a balance.’ But he can’t see it any other way. Nutty guy. Lots of drive, though. I’ve got to give him credit for that.”

Jesus paused and shook his head. He looked a little sad for a moment, but shrugged it off.

“Anyway, after I left, I didn’t really have any plans, so I just wandered north doing all the usual stuff – you know, healing the sick, helping people with their finances and trying to set people straight. That’s the hardest part – setting people straight. People pretty much do what they want to do. I don’t know about this free will thing. But that’s more dad’s gig. It is what it is, I guess. Anyway, I did meet a woman near Castle Rock who had a lame horse. I don’t usually work with animals, but I fixed it for her. She was so grateful she loaded me up with sausage rolls and a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies for the road. I think I gained 10 pounds.”

“So you’re not hungry?” Ruth said. “We thought we’d go out to eat tonight. You could join us.”

“I’d love to join you.” He patted his stomach. “Always room here for a hot meal.”

“We’ll get a babysitter — so we can talk.”

“No,” Jesus said, frowning. “The little ones should come, too. We won’t suffer for it. I’d enjoy seeing them. Where we going? Maybe they’ll have a balloon guy. That’d be fun.”

“We were thinking Tony Sermon’s place up on Green Mountain. They’ve got a fish special.”

“Sermon’s on the Mount? I’m in!”

******************************

Jesus on a potato chip.

We got a good table. It was in the back, where Jesus could maintain a low profile in the shadows. Except in parts of downtown Washington, D.C., people always bothered the guy like he was rock star or something. Usually, they just wanted him to get things for them – a car, a better-looking boyfriend, a new job – things like that.

Our waitress had just moved here from Hollywood and she didn’t recognize him, which was great because she didn’t bother us much, either. When it was time to order, Jesus insisted that he would take care of it.

“But you can’t afford this,” I protested.

“I insist,” he said. He turned to the waitress.

“Give me the fish, some bread and a pitcher of cold water, “ he said. “Oh, and we’ll need five extra plates. Your portions are huge.”

“But I don’t like fish,” said my youngest son, Jacob.

“Not even fried fish?” Jesus asked.

“No! It’s fishy!”

“Mac and cheese, then?”

“I like mac and cheese.”

“Me, too,” Jesus said. He turned to the waitress. “Add a mac and cheese for the young one. And three Sprites for the kids. No maraschino cherries, though. Those things don’t have any cherry left in them — just red food dye and chemicals.”

When the food arrived, Jesus passed out the fish and bread to everybody except Jacob. Our plates were full.

“White or red?” he asked.

“White,” Ruth said. “It goes better with fish.”

Jesus dipped his finger into the water, and it instantly turned into wine – a Chablis, I think, although I’m no expert on wines.

“I never get used to that food and wine trick,” I said. “How’s it work?”

“Got me,” Jesus said, shrugging. “Benefit of the job. Scares people here sometimes, but it’s a huge hit in India and China, where food’s always tight.”

We ate and drank, talking. It turned out there was a balloon guy on duty. Jesus asked him to make my kids a hat, a sword and a poodle. I liked the poodle the best, but Jesus asked him to make me a hat, too. I put it on, and everybody laughed, but Jesus was laughing the hardest. “You look stupid,” he said. But I didn’t mind because I’d had several glasses of wine. I just laughed with them.

When we were finished, Jesus ignored our protests and paid the bill.

“What’s 20 percent of $115?” he asked.

“It should be less than that,” I said. “You only ordered for one – plus the Sprites and the mac and cheese for Jacob, but that couldn’t be much.”

“I know. But I tip on what it would’ve cost without the coupon, so to speak. I hate to cheat the waitresses. They work hard, and they have a hard job.”

“OK,” I said. Who was I to argue with Jesus? ”And thanks for dinner.”

“Yes, thank you,” Ruth said.

“My pleasure,” Jesus replied.

As we were leaving, Ruth invited Jesus to spend the night at the house before moving on. “We’d love to have you over. You can stay in the guest room.”

“That would nice,” he said. “But don’t you have church in the morning?”

“Sure,” I said. “At 9 a.m. You can come with us. The pastor would be thrilled.”

“I’d rather sleep in, to be honest. It’s been a hard week.”

“Us, too. We were just being polite because you’re you — you know, you’re Jesus. We’d much rather sleep in, too. We can get up in time for brunch. I’ll make pancakes.”

“I love pancakes, especially with butter and real maple syrup,” Jesus said. “Maybe my face or mom’s face will show up on one and you can sell it on eBay.”

“That would be awesome. eBay it is. So we have a deal, then?”

“Amen — let it be so,” Jesus said, grinning.

“You’re a funny guy, Jesus. I’m glad you knocked.”

“Me, too,” he said. 

I sort of regret that last post.

Sometimes thoughts–emotions, really–fill up the space where my brain is supposed to be and then the pressure builds up and they unexpectedly squirt out of my mouth and onto my keyboard, where they make their way onto the Internet.

Later, upon close examination, I realize that I’ve created an embarrassing train wreck. An honest, open train wreck–and I believe there’s a lot to be said for being open and honest–but a train wreck nevertheless.

Well, fuck me.

Last night, I received the following comment from a fellow blogger named Roschelle, who’d just read my witty post about the importance of names:

“Wow, great writing as usual,” she said. “Thing is…it completely flew over my head. Too much cold medicine, too little sleep or pea sized brain. Either way I’ll read it again. I’m a little thick in the head sometimes anyway.”

OK. I get it.

Great writing. Completely flew over my head. That’s like complimenting a cook for a terrific meal that didn’t have any flavor.

Thing is, I don’t think Rochelle’s alone. Almost nobody gets my writing. Or perhaps it would be fairer to say my writing doesn’t get them.

Because I suck.

I quit. Or should, I guess.

Listen, I wouldn’t care about what Roschelle thinks, except that she’s a really good blogger. A successful blogger. She runs not one, not two, but three blogs, including a smart,well-written, useful one called Inconsequential Logic. And she’s won blogging awards. Real awards, not those stupid things blogging buddies hand out to one another like candy or trade show schwag to draw attention to their own blogs. Ezinearticles.com, for example, named her a Platinum Expert Author.

My blog, on the other hand, is beloved. By my mother, who’d probably love me if I were a mass murderer. Which I’m not, unless you count what I’m doing to the English language as murder.

I receive an average of 300 to 1,000 hits a day on my blog, and about five to maybe 25 comments per post. Most of those comments come from my family and friends, or from people who feel obligated to read my blog because I read theirs.

Although I do this mainly for my own entertainment, sometimes it’s depressing. And infuriating.

I like to think that I write humorous, literate posts for educated readers. I try very hard to spell words correctly, use good grammar and punctuation, and to write clear sentences that can be easily understood, even by people who have to read very slowly. I pepper my posts with clever literary and pop-culture references. I’m honest and sincere, even when I’m trying to be funny. I try to think before I write, and I challenge my readers to think and read along with me, even if that requires 1,000 words to achieve instead of the requisite 100 to 300 words that fit most people’s attention spans.

But almost nobody seems to give a flying fuck about the quality of writing anymore.

In fact, I swear there’s an inverse relationship between the quality of a blog and the number of readers it attracts. The more poorly written and silly it is, the more hits it gets. The better written it is, the less successful it will be. Now, I’m prepared to admit that perhaps my blog’s not well written. But I’m a paid professional writer, and I read a few other bloggers out there that do a very fine job of stringing words together into sentences, paragraphs and entire columns. Guess what? Most of them get don’t many hits or comments either. What we have in common, is that we suffer from a failure to communicate.

What bothers me about that problem is that some of the most popular blogs on the Internet are so poorly written they’re almost unintelligible. Many of them are totally self indulgent (OK, maybe I’m guilty of that, too), and many of them are downright insulting, especially to the handicapped and developmentally disabled. And yet they’re damnably popular. Therefore, I’ve concluded we live in the New Dark Ages and that most people just want to read the intellectual equivalent of dick jokes and potty humor.

Me, too, because dick jokes and fart jokes are funny.

Sometimes.

But I also like to believe it’s important to strike a balance in life. That for every dick joke you read, you ought to read three challenging articles. Three thought-provoking articles.

And maybe people do. Maybe they’re just not reading mine. Not most of the time. Or they’re not telling me, anyway, probably because, like Roschelle—and I like Roschelle, by the way, because she’s smart–they find my posts difficult, dull and dreary.

Sigh.

I do get read sometimes, though.

You know what my most popular post is about?

Hockey.

I wrote a funny fake news story earlier this year about the Penguins winning the Stanley Cup, and mentioned Evgeni Malkin. People love Malkin. He’s good looking, he’s an athlete, his life is interesting and he sucks ‘em in to my site by the dozens every day. So does Michael Jackson, whom I’ve also parodied because….well, because it’s easy to parody people like Michael Jackson, and sometimes I’m too lazy to put any real effort into a post.

Whatever the motivation, I enjoyed writing those posts. They made me laugh. But I also liked my recent post about the importance of names, and the one about my dinner with Andre 3000, and the one about Jean-Paul Sartre and chicken jokes, and the one about the scientific hunt for Bigfoot, who really does exist, I’m sure of it. I know not everything I’ve written is a winner, but I’ve liked a lot of it.

I hope some of you did, too.

Gwyneth Paltrow starred in "Shakespeare in Love," which was produced in Hollywood because Americans are confused by Shakespeare's actual plays.

Are people’s names important?

William Shakespeare didn’t seem to think so. In Romeo and Juliet, he wrote, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.”

On the other hand, some scholars believe “William Shakespeare” was a pseudonym—that the bard’s classic marble-mouthed lines were actually penned by a well-educated British noble who was too ashamed to admit he loved a lowbrow profession like the theater.

Some evidence indicates Shakespeare actually might have been the great philosopher Francis Bacon, for instance, or perhaps Edward de Vere, the 17^th Earl of Oxford. Shakespeare even might have been the literary genius Christopher Marlowe, who, like the Stratford man, often used alternate spellings of his name, including Marlo, Marlow, Marklin, and Marley. Marlowe reportedly died young, apparently after being stabbed to death in a drunken barroom brawl like most writers. But a few historians believe he may have staged his death to avoid being executed for being a homosexual, atheist and spy, which was as heinous during Elizabethan times in England as it was during the Bush administration in America. Once he was successfully buried, Marlow supposedly began writing under the assumed name of William Shakespeare, who was the son of a glove maker so illiterate he didn’t how to write his own name.

So maybe names aren’t very important unless you’re a bard running from the Queen, or a queen running from the bar.

You wouldn’t know it by watching new parents, however. Expectant couples often worry a lot about naming their children, fearing that if they get it wrong, they’ll either offend their relatives, or fly off the handle and pick a ridiculous girl’s name like Gertrude, Betty, Desiree, or a boy’s name like Dwayne, Wesley or Poindexter. (If you have one of these names, I apologize for picking on you. I’d also like to say I’m sorry for the pain and embarrassment you experienced in junior high school.) In the literary tradition of Shakespeare, here’s a dramatic, one-act play to illustrate my point:

Baby Gets A Name

Mom to be, tired, feeling fat and ugly, not to mention hormonal: “Honey, should we name our son after your grandfather, Jos Bleau, who bravely led the charge against the Nazis to win the Battle of the Roquefort Brie, or your father, Glen Livet, who spent some time at Folsom prison for armed robbery but went on to play backup guitar in Johnny Cash’s band?”

William Shakespeare looked a lot like the actor Paul Giamatti, and would probably be jealous of my play, "Baby Gets a Name."

Dad, grumpy and desperate to watch Monday Night Football after a hard day at work: “How about your grandfather, Ambrose, who abandoned his wife and children in Scotland and fled to America seeking the freedom to drink Scotch and watch football without constantly being interrupted?”

Mom: “You cruel bastard! I didn’t want to tell you this until now, Wesley, but you’re not even the father of our child!”

Dad: “What are you saying, Betty?”

Mom: “Remember that unexpected UPS delivery we got last June?”

Dad: “Yes, the oversized, well-wrapped package delivered by Dick, the UPS delivery man?”

Mom: “Yes, that’s it! Well, that large package wasn’t as well wrapped as I led you to believe. Richard is the father of my child! While you were at work that afternoon making googely eyes at your secretary, Christina Big Boobs, Richard the UPS deliveryman and I had passionate sex on the very sofa you’re lounging on now. Two weeks later, I knew I was pregnant with his love child. And just so you’ll never forget how much I despise you, I’m going to name him Richard, Jr., and nickname him ‘Little Dick.’ ”

Dad, suddenly sitting up and switching off the television: “You know, Betty, I’ve been thinking—Glen would be a good name for our boy. And my dad would be proud. Tell you what—let’s use Jos Bleau as our son’s middle name in memory of your grandfather!”

Mom, falling into her husband’s arms: “Oh, Wesley, I love you so much! Glen Jos Bleau Livet, Jr. it is! Let’s celebrate by making wild love on this couch!”

Dad, sighing: “Could we wait until the game’s over? And maybe we ought to stick to our bed until we can get this couch sanitized. Dick’s not exactly a role model for hygiene.”

~The End~

I hope you enjoyed the play, which lacked a good sword fight, but was artistically infused with both dramatic and comic elements in order to hold your interest. I also hope you noticed that Glen Jos Bleau Livet, Jr. is not a common name. I like unusual names, perhaps because my name, Michael, seems so ordinary.

To be fair, Michael does have an unusual meaning: “One who is like the Lord.” It’s also the name of the leader of Heaven’s army in the Bible’s Book of Revelation. In fact, only two angels are named in the Bible—Michael, of course, and Gabriel, the loudmouthed archangel who foretold the births of John the Baptist and Jesus.

The only problem I have with my name, besides the fact that it’s a bit much to live up to, is that it’s so popular. According the U.S. Social Security Administration, Michael has been the number one or two most popular name for American boys in every year since at least 1959, the year I was born (and perhaps longer—I was too lazy to keep checking). But if you don’t believe me, just shout, “Michael!” next time you’re at a party and watch in astonishment as half the room turns your direction.

This is a singer named Declan Galbraith. I like his name because Declan sounds like a good drinking buddy.

I would love to have a more unusual name. Some of my favorite names include Manu Tuiasosopo, which rolls off the tongue like butter and sounds slightly intimidating in a Samoan way; Dylan, which has strong artistic roots and seems faintly mysterious; Declan, who sounds like a good drinking buddy; and Clint, of the Eastwood fame. For at least a year now, I’ve also been very fond of the name Imogen Heap, which sounds gender neutral but belongs to an award-winning English female singer-songwriter who writes some very strange yet interesting music.

Curiously, I recently learned that the name Imogen is the result of classic literary mistake. A famous playwright created the name for a female character in one of his less popular plays, Cymbeline. Scholars believe the playwright meant to use the name of Innogen, a legendary figure whose name was derived from a Celtic word “inghean,” which means maiden. But the writer spelled it incorrectly, and it was never corrected.

And that writer’s name?

William Shakespeare. Or Francis Bacon, Edward de Vere, or Christopher Marlowe, Marlo, Marlow, Marklin or Marley—hell, we’ll probably never know for sure what his real name was. But I don’t think it really matters, because the Stratford man was a great writer, a sweet-smelling rose amongst a thicket of thorns.

In the movie "Gladiator," Russell Crowe played a beloved Roman general who failed to save the world from mathematicians by separating them from their slide rules and abacuses by cutting off their heads.

Math is incredibly exciting.

Consider Fermat’s Theorem, for instance.

Formulated in 1637 by the French lawyer and brilliant amateur mathematician Pierre de Fermat, the theorem postulates that no three positive integers a, b, and c can satisfy the equation an + bn = cn for any integer value of n greater than two. The problem seems obvious enough to most people, including me, but many of the world’s greatest thinkers failed to prove it was true until 1995, when a mathematics professor at Princeton University named Sir Andrew Wiles finally solved it. He’d been working on it since he was 10 years old.

Suddenly, the unassuming 56-year-old Englishman became to mathematics what Indiana Jones is to archeolo…..oh, who am I kidding?

I don’t know anything about math.

I hate math.

And mathematicians seem as dull as butter knives to me, no matter how hard Hollywood’s marketing experts worked to drum up interest for Matt Damon in Goodwill Hunting and Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind. I can’t imagine having a mathematician over to the house for dinner, let alone going on holiday with one.

Me, pointing excitedly: “Ooh, look! Is that the Parthenon? Pretty!”

Mathematician, fingering his slide rule: “Yes, it is the temple the Greeks erected in 432 BC to honor the goddess Athena. Today, it is the most important surviving building of Classical Greece, generally considered to be the culmination of the development of the Doric order. Its decorative sculptures are considered one of the high points of Greek art. But what’s truly fascinating, is that modern architectural experts say the Parthenon’s proportions approximate the golden ratio, in which the ratio of the sum of the quantities to the larger quantity is equal to the ratio of the larger quantity to the smaller one. Surprisingly, the golden ratio is an irrational mathematical constant, approximately 1.6180339887.”

Me, yawning, nearing brain death: “Fabulous! Thank you for that info! Really! Hey, I wonder if they have a gyros cart in there? I loves my rotisserie lamb and tzatziki sauce!”

Pierre de Fermat was boring, as evidenced by this painting.

Thankfully, I managed to skip through high school without encountering much math, unless mindlessly reciting the well-known equation 36-24-36 while drooling lustfully at pretty girls (or even girls who weren’t that pretty) counts. College, on the other hand, was more problematic.

I nearly flunked out of college because I almost failed to pass a remedial algebra course. In fact, I would’ve flunked out for sure except that I had a roommate who was an engineering student who understood the complexities of equations like 2 + 2 = 5. Oops! I mean 4—I’m not that dumb, I’m just a bad typist. Thank God my roomie, Phil, was as bad at writing as I was at solving for x. He tutored me in exchange for a little help writing his English papers.

OK, OK, I admit it! I wrote them for him. I’ve been harboring the guilt of that dark secret for all these years. But you do what you have to do to get by in life, and sometimes it’s not pretty, OK? At least I didn’t trade sex for good grades, OK?

Not that semester, anyway.

Enough distractions! Back to the story!

After accepting an “incomplete” in Math for Dummies in the first semester, I waited—characteristically—until the last possible day of the following semester to take my final exam. It was do or die, and Phil coached me right up the last possible minute. I nervously entered the test room—if not confidently, then at least on my own two feet instead of crawling in, or being rolled in a wheelchair. And a few tortured, sweaty hours later, I left that room with the furrowed brow of my tiny head held high, having received the coveted grade: “Pass.”

Matt Damon tried to make mathematicians seem interesting in the movie "Goodwill Hunting." But it didn't work, and the movie only made....let's see, 9 plus 147, carry the 1 and add a O. Oh, I give up. Let's just say it didn't make that much by Hollywood standards.

Not that any of my newfound numerical knowledge stuck with me. To this day, I can’t even remember how to balance a checkbook. I never knew what kind of gas mileage I was getting until a few months ago, when I bought a car with a trip computer that calculates it for me. When I buy groceries, I sort of guesstimate how much everything in the cart adds up to. If I’m wrong and don’t have enough cash, I don’t hold up the line and embarrass myself by putting things back, I just whip out my credit card, knowing that my wife, Kerry, will figure out how to pay the bill later.

In fact, thank God I married a woman who has a knack for numbers, or I’d be living on the streets right now, begging for enough quarters to get some food at the dollar store.

I think I’d need five quarters, right? Or is it six?

Whatever. I don’t need to worry about it, because I’m sure the cashiers will know. They work with money all the time. Those people are brainiacs. In fact, they probably solved Fermat’s theorem years before Sir Wiles and just quietly kept the answer to themselves, waiting for everybody else to catch up.