Waiter Rant (original) (raw)

https://www.waiterrant.net/DO YOU WANT POMMES FRITES WITH THAT? Thu, 03 Jul 2025 02:11:43 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://www.waiterrant.net/wp-content/uploads/2018/07/cropped-Untitled-1-32x32.jpg Waiter Rant https://www.waiterrant.net/32 32 Crossing The Street https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/07/crossing-the-street/https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/07/crossing-the-street/#respond Wed, 02 Jul 2025 21:32:15 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=8424 A few nights ago, I was walking home with my daughter from a nearby restaurant when we stopped at a light to cross the street. The day had been unbearably hot, but an approaching cold front was stirring just enough of an breeze to take the edge off the lingering humid heat. Below the horizon, […]

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]]> A few nights ago, I was walking home with my daughter from a nearby restaurant when we stopped at a light to cross the street. The day had been unbearably hot, but an approaching cold front was stirring just enough of an breeze to take the edge off the lingering humid heat. Below the horizon, the twilight sun was casting purpling shadows across the sky while the clouds above us shimmered like amaranth dreams.

Reaching out, I offered my daughter my hand and she took it. At the age where her parents are becoming “embarrassing,” Natalie often refuses, but not that night. Feeling her little hand in mine, I looked down to see her looking up at me, her face graced by a small smile. Whether it was a trick of the light or the margarita I’d had, she seemed both girl and woman at the same time, what I’d known and what she what was about to come. Watching her hair wavering in the breeze as her perspiring skin sparkled under the streetlamp’s sodium light, I marveled at my daughter’s loveliness. How’d she grow up so fast? Heading off to middle school next fall, Natalie’s no longer a baby – as her latest obsession with Sephora products can attest – but she still needs to be tucked into bed with her favorite stuffed animal before she goes to sleep, wavering between childhood and the world which lies beyond.

Waiting for the light to change, I knew Natalie wouldn’t cross until I led the way, but I also knew one day, and very soon, she would no longer need to hold my hand. Feeling her pull on me, I knew my daughter was already chomping at the bit, straining to race towards the future’s promise. Sometimes we feel like we’re being pulled towards a future we cannot see or understand but, as I’ve gotten older, I cannot shake the sense that, instead of being pulled, I’m being drawn towards that mysterious horizon, yearning to see what comes next. I want to see Natalie grow up, get old with my wife, travel to new places, learn new things – to become more that I am now. In short, I never want the party to end. My child’s desire to grow up so fast is just that – desire – our attraction to what’s good for us, towards that which is true, good, and beautiful_._

Grasping Natalie’s hand, I remembered the shock of wonder I felt when she was born – that she was her and that beautiful herwas here – which got me thinking how any of us got here in the first place. The Book of Genesis says God fashioned the world from a dark and formless void – nothing – and then proclaimed his handiwork as good. How did he manage that trick? I think our desire to experience the future offers a glimpse at the answer. If God is indeed existence, truth and goodness itself, then he is also indescribably and infinitely beautiful – a beauty so alluringly powerful that it evokes desire within that void of nothing, causing all there is to venture forth into being. Simply put, He’s too gorgeous to resist. As finite creatures, however, different from God’s “eternal now,” we can only experience that desire within “the moving image of eternity” which is time. For us God is absolute futurity, an infinity we can never traverse, but the very desire He evokes make us want to race across that distance between Him and us with abandon. We want to see what’s next, how it’ll all turn out, to become more – for the party to never end – which is, of course, eternal bliss_._ To steal a phrase, desire just isn’t the cause of our being; it is our being.

“Dad,” Natalie said. “Let’s go. The light’s green.”

As we crossed the street, Natalie let go of my hand but, when we reached the other side, she took it again because she wanted to. Sighing, I realized this was yet another gift in the long series of gifts that have been my life, and that my very desire for even more of these gifts is what’s propelling me across that infinite ocean of time. Now that I’m nearing sixty, I’ll admit the future sometimes fills me with fear but, at that moment, I caught a glimpse of its luminous promise, shimmering like the twilit clouds above.

“C’mon, Natalie,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

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]]> https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/07/crossing-the-street/feed/ 0 Dancing Round & Round https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/06/dancing-round-round/https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/06/dancing-round-round/#comments Thu, 19 Jun 2025 01🔞51 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=8411 A couple of weeks ago, the police called after hours to tell me they found family sleeping in their car. Small children were involved. “I’ll be right in,” I said. After getting buzzed into the police station, I got the skinny from the officer who found them. “Can we put them in a hotel?” he […]

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]]> A couple of weeks ago, the police called after hours to tell me they found family sleeping in their car. Small children were involved. “I’ll be right in,” I said. After getting buzzed into the police station, I got the skinny from the officer who found them.

“Can we put them in a hotel?” he asked.

“We have to,” I said. “The problem is none of the hotels around here want my people.”

“Why not?”

“Remember that guy we put in the Acme Motel last year? The one who OD’d? We had to break the door down.”

“Oh yeah, I remember him.”

“He also crapped and threw up all over the place and I had to pay five hundred bucks in damages. No wonder the owner stopped taking my people.”

“Guys like that ruin it for everyone. So, what do you want to do?”

“Take the money out of the petty cash,” I said. “I’ll authorize it. Then take them to a hotel. The staff are more likely to want to help you than me. Maybe so you’ll help them with a troublesome guest in the future.”

“Got it.”

Walking into the parking lot, the cop introduced me to the young family. It was a fairly typical situation; the father was working but couldn’t come up with enough scratch for a to stay in his apartment, blew what he had on a hotel, and now they were living in their car. Looking at the two kids in the backseat, I knew if my wife and daughter were in that situation, I’d lose my mind.

“Let’s go up to my office,” I told the father. “We’ve got food and baby supplies up there and your wife will know what you need.” So, we all marched into the municipal building and rode the elevator up to the food pantry.

“What grade are you in?” I asked the little boy as the floor of the lift pressed against our feet.

“Second,” he said.

“Wow. And you’re a big brother too. That’s an important job. How old’s your sister?”

“One.” Looking at the little girl in her mother’s arms, I felt a spurt of anger. No child should have to go through this.

“Okay,” I said, after opening up my office. “The first thing I do with everyone is give them a stuffed animal.” Hauling a basket filled with teddy bears, stuffed dogs, cats, elephants, and lord knows what else, I set the plushie menagerie on the floor and let the kids have at it. They were very happy.

“A kitty and a bear,” I said. Excellent choices.” Then, as they kids played on the floor, I got down to the hard work of interviewing the parents.

“The county won’t help us,” the mother, said. “They say they have nothing.” No surprise there. With Medicaid, Meals on Wheels, SNAP, and other programs all on the chopping block, charities public and private are struggling. My food pantry sees new people unable to feed their families every day.

“We’ll try and figure something out,” I said. “But tonight, let’s just focus on your immediate needs.” So, I let the parents take what they wanted from my pantry and gave them gift cards to buy diapers, food and, because the dad had a long drive to work, gas. “And we have all sorts of personal care stuff in here,” I said, opening a cabinet. “Soap, toothbrushes, shampoo, deodorant, razors, and feminine hygiene products.” When I mentioned the last item, I heard the mom draw a deep breath. She was about to cry.

“Hang in there,” I said. “It’ll work out. Take what you need.”

As the parents loaded a shopping cart with supplies, I looked at the one year old babbling as she played peek-a-boo with her new toy. “I like your earrings,” I said. “Very pretty.” Pulled out of her reverie by my voice, she looked up, fixed her innocent eyes on me, and smiled. Thinking of another family who once found no room at the inn, I was reminded why I do what I do.

America is an ostensibly “Christian Nation” but, with all this “America First” stuff many churchgoers seem to be buying into, it’s amazing how many followers of Christ have hardened their hearts towards the poor and distressed with a sadism bordering on the diabolical. Even having empathy for other people is suspect for them. How did Catholic convert J.D. Vance put it? “There is a Christian concept,” he said, mangling the concept of ordo amoris, “That you love your family and then you love your neighbor, and then you love your community, and then you love your fellow citizens, and then after that, prioritize the rest of the world. A lot of the far left has completely inverted that.” No wonder Pope Francis stroked out a couple of hours after meeting him.

Jesus didn’t look at love as a finite resource to be parsimoniously doled out in expanding circles with you as the prioritized center. He said, “Love God with all your heart, soul, and mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.” That was his Great Commandment, which last I checked, supersedes JD’s half-baked opinions about church teaching. (Converts, in their zeal, can often be like a kid with one karate lesson.) Jesus sought out the poor and despised and loved them with a love the world could not give but, when coming up against people like J.D. who opine, “Take care of what’s yours first,” how do you explain the “why” of that love to them?

Last week was Trinty Sunday, when the church celebrates the oft misunderstood doctrine of the Holy Trinty – The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. On the face of it, saying God is three distinct “persons” yet still one God sounds awfully confusing and, for the sake of brevity, I won’t unpack the doctrine of the Trinty in detail here – mostly because some deep thinkers have explained it better than I ever could. But, usually to avoid the heresy of polytheism, I think there’s been an overemphasis on the “Oneness” of the Trinity at the expense of the “Three.” According to the doctrine, The Father, Son, and Sprit are distinct; different from each other. That’s important because it shows God contains “otherness” within Himself in harmony and peace. So, if we are made in the image and likeness of God, it should come as no surprise that we are all different, analogous and diverse reflections of his splendor.

Sadly, we humans have a hard time with the harmony and peace part. We view differences with suspicion, leading to the all too human impulse to take care of our own, to associate only with people who look, think, believe, and love like we do. That kind of thinking hardens hearts, destroys empathy, and makes charity almost impossible. But the love Jesus talked about is communal because God himself is communal, three in one, always different yet indivisibly one. Explaining that oneness, Ignatius of Loyola said it was like a harmonic chord, when three separate notes are played simultaneously to produce one sound. I, however, prefer to think of the Trinty as a dance, the loving flow of movement and touch between two dancers and the interplay of love and joy between them – and the Gospel is God’s invitation to dance with Him.

As my wife can attest, I hate to dance – probably because I think it makes me look stupid – which is a shame because I’ve missed many opportunities for connection as a result. When it comes to loving others, charity, connection, that dance of the Lord, how many of us also worry about looking stupid? What will those in our “bubble” think if we reach out to those who are “different?” What will happen if, as is often the case with love, our efforts are rebuffed, our gift ignored, or took advantage of? Get burned a couple of times and you don’t want to get on that dance floor at all which, in the end, makes for a lonely life. But that invitation to partake in the Trinity’s dance is always there, always calling to us in differing ways. Every human being is a dance partner because, since God sanctified difference within Himself, each one of us, because of our differences, is a revelation of who God is. That’s why you have to love your neighbor – even when we think it sometimes makes us look weak, stupid, or foolish – because that dance of love is what makes us all one. As Jesus said, “Just as you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be one in us.” That’s not some “leftist inversion.” That’s the very life of God.

Sitting in my office, I knew that little girl’s smile was my invitation to the dance. Today I was leading, and her family was following, but I knew others would be spinning me about too, round and round, all of us going back and forth, for the rest of my life. Sometimes you have to have the courage to hold out your hand and, on other days, the humility to take another’s I think that’s a reflection of the Trinity too.

Shopping finished, I helped the family load their supplies into their car and gave them directions to the hotel I’d secured for them. “Thank you again,” the mother said, holding her squirming daughter in her arms.

“My pleasure,” I said.

Then, when the mom began to walk away the baby, looking at over her mom’s shoulder, started crying, stretching her arms towards me, as if saying, “Don’t go! Don’t go!” Was that because I’d given her a toy? Because she somehow sensed I was nice to her parents? Or was it because a stranger had loved her, even if just for a moment? Listening to her cries, I wondered if some trace of that memory might follow her into adulthood and, when the time came, give her an unconscious push to help someone else. Who knows? Perhaps that’s all part of the dance too.

Back in my office, I suddenly felt the desire to play Aaron Copeland’s Appalachian Spring on my computer. Gazing out the window, I listened as the movement featuring the Shaker song “Simple Gifts” poured from my speakers. When I was a kid, one of my favorite church hymns was set to that tune. Maybe you remember singing it.

Dance, then, wherever you may be; I am the Lord of the Dance, said he. And I’ll lead you all wherever you may be, And I’ll lead you all in the dance, said he.

Smiling to myself, I thought about all the people who’d donated the food and money that made it possible for me to help that family. I often describe my job as being a “generosity coordinator” bringing donors together with needs and midwifing their generosity forth into the world. But today I realized, in a very small way, I’d also played a part in that Divine Choreography, that beautiful dance of difference and unity, which is the very love which brought everything that is into being.

Not bad work if you can get it.

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]]> https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/06/dancing-round-round/feed/ 3 Habemus Papam https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/05/habemus-papam/https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/05/habemus-papam/#comments Sat, 10 May 2025 17:40:48 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=8380 I was riding back with a police officer from a welfare check when his cellphone pinged. “White smoke,” the cop said. “They picked the Pope.” “On the fourth ballot,” I said. “Quicker than last time.” When I arrived at my office, I turned my computer to the news and watched as the Cardinal Proto-Deacon intoned the […]

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]]> I was riding back with a police officer from a welfare check when his cellphone pinged. “White smoke,” the cop said. “They picked the Pope.”

“On the fourth ballot,” I said. “Quicker than last time.”

When I arrived at my office, I turned my computer to the news and watched as the Cardinal Proto-Deacon intoned the words, “Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum. Habemus Papam!”

“I announce to you a great joy,” I said, translating the words for my volunteers huddled around the screen. “We have a Pope.” Then, straining my ears, I listened as the cardinal got around to the “big reveal.”

“Eminentissimum ac Reverendissimum Dominum, Dominum Robertus Franciscus Sanctae Romanae Ecclesiae Cardinalem Prevost qui sibi nomen imposuit Leone Decimumquatrum.”

“Who?” one of my volunteers said.

“They picked an American,” I replied, proud my rusty Latin held up. “Cardinal Robert Prevost. Now Pope Leo the Fourteenth.”

“An American?”

“Unbelievable,” I said.

When the new Pope came out on the balcony, by the way he was clasping his hands tightly in front of him, I thought he looked nervous. Then I recalled something a British cardinal said before the conclave, “Becoming pope is like a mini death.” When you become pope, life as you know it is over.

“Three days ago,” I said. “You could’ve passed this guy on the street and not given him a second look. Now his entire life has changed.”

“Why do popes change their name when they get elected?” my Lutheran volunteer asked.

“They all used their birth names in the beginning,” I said. “That’s why you had popes named Zephyrinus, Dionysus and Lando. But when a guy named Mercurius got picked way back, he didn’t want his papal name to be that of a pagan god, so he changed it to John. Eventually the tradition stuck.” Of course, being the top dog, Leo could have kept his birth name, but somehow “Pope Bob” doesn’t have quite the same zing.

I don’t speak Italian but, as the new pope addressed the crowd, I picked out the word “synodality” and his praise of the late Pontiff, Francis. I also noticed he was wearing the red mozzetta that Francis shunned when elected in 2013 and wondered if Leo was sending a message to the both the conservative and liberal elements in the church. That, although he might continue with many of his predecessors’ policies, he would be a more “traditional” than the freewheeling Francis. But that could be just me trying to read ecclesiastical tea leaves.

“Interesting he picked the name ‘Leo,’” my Catholic volunteer said, “He was a social justice pope.”

“Rerum Novarum,” I said, referring Leo XIII’s encyclical. “He wanted workers to get their fair share back then too.” I didn’t add that, in his youth as an administrator in the Papal States, Gioacchino Pecci also sicced soldiers on the Mafia resulting in a few fatalities. “But we’ll see what this pope does. I’m sure he’ll be his own man.”

When I returned home, I fired up my computer and tabbed over to comment sections of some super-conservative Catholic websites and wasn’t surprised by what I found:

He will be an awful pope.

The fix was in.

Heretic.

We’re doomed.

When John Paul II asked people to jump, the conservatives asked, “How high?” and then lambasted anyone who dissented with him as a “bad Catholic.” But when Francis said things that made them uncomfortable – like not being a slave to money, protecting the environment, welcoming migrants, giving communion to divorced couples, or being more pastoral to LGBT people – they had a conniption. But since they had said dissenting from papal edicts was intolerable, they pivoted to saying it was the pope who was “bad” or not truly pontiff at all. If that’s not a double standard I don’t know what is. But I’ve always thought it was interesting that the Jesus was crucified soon after he scourged the money lenders in the Temple. When you fuck with peoples’ money – or sense of certainty or comfort – they tend to take it badly.

Whether Leo will be a pope in the style of Francis remains to be seen, but that hasn’t stopped that decidedly odd bunch of clericalized triumphalist lay people who pine for a return to the church of the Sixteenth Century from rendering judgment. To my mind, in their pedantic obsession with the rubrics of the Tridentine Mass, tantric quoting of obscure papal edicts, playing dress up in anachronistic vestments, and their zealous lip service to the “Magisterium” and the “Deposit of Faith” they’ve turned the Church into idol engraved in Latin, far removed from the messy living, breathing “assembly” of real people whose purpose is to not only proclaim the Gospel to all nations, but to try and live it too.

When I read the transcript of Pope Leo’s first sermon in the Sistine Chapel today, I was stuck by one thought in particular. Saying that, for many people, Jesus had morphed into some kind of superhero, Leo opined, “and this is true not only among non-believers but also among many baptized Christians, who thus end up living, at this level, in a state of practical atheism. For people who fear messiness and uncertainty, idols are very attractive. Idols don’t ask you to go outside your comfort zone, make life changing demands, confront your bullshit, or tell you to roll up your sleeves and get dirty serving the poor and afflicted. Idolatrous thinking just turns two millennia of Christian tradition into just another set of fashionable spiritual bric a brac not far removed from healing crystals, magical talismans, or astrology.

So, it should come as no surprise that some of these Catholics, like JD Vance, twist Church teachings to advance their own particular ideologies at the expense of the very people Jesus asked us to serve. Decrying the evils of the secular world, which are often things they don’t like, understand, or jive with their cohorts’ ideology, they seek to wall themselves behind the certainty of rituals and rules, pounce on perceived heresies, proclaim there’s no salvation outside Holy Mother Church, and then bury their heads in the sand until Jesus comes back and tosses all those pesky heathens into hell.

Sorry to break it to you, but the Church has been a mess since Jesus got sucked up into the clouds two thousand years ago. To go into detail concerning the infighting, schisms, and theological and political conflicts that have raged since day one would take forever to enumerate, but the Church has never been one big happy family – which is no surprise because families are messy too. Pope Francis knew this, once saying, “In families, we argue; in families, sometimes the plates fly; in families, the children give us headaches. And I’m not even going to mention the mother-in-law.” The church is like any other family writ large – joyful, anxious, happy, resentful, selfless, dysfunctional, loving, guilt tripping, oddly bonded together, and often scared of change. The only real heresy is not to recognize this.

The word ‘Pope” come from the Latin word “papa” which means The Bishop of Rome is the “daddy” at the head of this huge wonderful squabbling mess. No wonder Leo looked nervous. When I came home from the hospital with my newborn daughter, I turned to my father-in-law and anxiously said, “What do I do now?”

“Raise her,” he replied, with a grin.

“How?” I wondered. The answer to that question, I have found, has been both simple yet unbelievably complex. Guiding Natalie through life I have looked to the example of my parents, friends who have kids, sought the guidance of experts and, truth be told, make it up as I go along. I suspect when Leo was on that balcony for the first time, looking at all those people looking to him for guidance, at least part of him was going, “Oh shit, what do I do now?” He’s a like a new father too, but I’m sure his reaction will be much like mine – relying on tradition, the accumulated wisdom of the ages, his own personal experiences, and just plain winging it. It’ll be messy. He’ll screw up, stick his foot in his mouth, never make everyone happy but, like any good dad, he’ll try his best and, like me, pray someone is watching over him. Welcome to fatherhood buddy. Now everything changes.

So, like Francis before him, I wish Pope Leo XIV well shepherding his huge, diverse, messy, and unruly flock. The dishes will fly, his kids will give him headaches and he’ll probably end up yelling, “You can’t go out looking like that!” but, in the end, I think he’ll love all his children the best he can. As long as he sticks with proclaiming the “Good News” and, like any good dad, “makes himself small” so his children can thrive, I think he’ll do a very good job.

Habemus Papam!

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]]> https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/05/habemus-papam/feed/ 1 Give Us This Day Our Daily Bread https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/05/give-us-this-day-our-daily-bread/https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/05/give-us-this-day-our-daily-bread/#comments Fri, 02 May 2025 18:37:23 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=8363 When I came back to work from a doctor’s appointment the parking lot was crammed, forcing me to stow my car on the street. “What gives?” I asked the head admin when I came inside. “It’s the National Day of Prayer,” she said. “Already?” “Time flies.” “Is there food afterwards?” I said, noticing that my […]

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]]> When I came back to work from a doctor’s appointment the parking lot was crammed, forcing me to stow my car on the street. “What gives?” I asked the head admin when I came inside.

“It’s the National Day of Prayer,” she said.

“Already?”

“Time flies.”

“Is there food afterwards?” I said, noticing that my stomach was rumbling.

“Right afterwards. They’re all gathered outside.”

Since the local churches give generously to my food pantry, I figured my attendance was mandatory. Because of my appointment, however, I was late, forcing me to make an awkward entrance just as everyone was singing The National Anthem. Finding a seat in the back, I enjoyed the feel of the warm spring sun on my back as several pastors, a deacon, Iman, rabbi and a nun offered noticeably ecumenical prayers for our town and country. When it was the Presbyterian minister’s remarks, he said. “We were tasked to pray for nice weather today and God delivered. Just giving my church a plug.”

After the service concluded with singing “America the Beautiful,” I shook hands with several religious leaders and donors and then went into the auditorium for my free lunch – but the tables were bare. “There was a screwup,” the admin, said, looking horrified. “The caterer was under the impression this was next week. They’re rushing to get it here.” Looking at the others waiting for their free lunch I said, “Time for the miracle of the loaves and fishes. If one of these ministers can pull it off, I’ll go to his church.”

“Watch,” a minister who overheard me, said. “It’ll be the Muslim guy.”

“I have to go to my office,” I told the admin. “Call me when it gets here.”

An hour later, the food finally arrived but all the ministers and several of the seniors who’d shown up for the service had left. “I can hear the blood sugar levels crashing,” I said. “Even Jesus knew you need food to lure people in.”

“How so?” one of my co-workers said.

“The Last Supper? Do you think the apostles would’ve shown up if there wasn’t food?”

“You’re bad.”

“The Eucharist was a real meal originally,” I said, lapsing into professorial mode. “And I’m sure people back then were saying, ‘Simon puts on a better spread than Jacob. Let’s go to his house!’ Some of the earliest writings of the church were cautions regarding drunkenness at the Lord’s Supper.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I’m sure some worshippers showed up pre-medicated.”

With short notice, the caterer did the best he could, and the admin liberated leftover fruit juices and waters from a recent blood drive to shore up the beverage supply. When you factor that in plus the people who left, there was just enough food and drink for everybody. A kind of half ass miracle, but a miracle, nonetheless. After I had my half sandwich and potato salad, I went back upstairs to mind the food pantry.

Things are getting bad, and I fear, with the way the economy is going, they’ll just get worse. Clients are coming more often, taking more supplies, and I’m getting more people from outside my catchment area than usual. Luckily our supplies are holding, but I’m starting to worry. We made it through COVID with flying colors but now we seem to be entering uncharted territory. “We’re all going to be on food stamps soon,” I groused to a volunteer. “That is if Donald doesn’t gut that program as well.” After several clients came and went, I surveyed our supplies of fresh meat and eggs and noticed that what we’d purchased only days before was almost gone.

“Give us this day our daily bread,” is prayed in churches every day. A literal translation of those words from the Greek would be, “The bread of us belonging to tomorrow give to us today,” but could also be rendered Bread adequate for today’s needs. Yeah, just “daily bread” works too but, as David Bentley Hart wrote, “… I doubt most of us quite hear the note of desperation in that [Greek wording] – the very real uncertainty, suffered every day, concerning whether today one will have enough food to survive.” If you can’t eat, not much else is going to get done. Jesus was a realist.

When it comes to the Eucharist, it drives me nuts that in an ostensibly Christian country so many people go hungry. Feeding people was what Jesus was all about, even to the point of that food being his own body and blood. But too often the Eucharist gets buried under a ton of religious errata. When I was in seminary, we were taught all about transubstantiation, bowed before the tabernacle containing the Sacred Host, and every Sunday adored a consecrated wafer encased in a gold monstrance on the altar. While I have absolutely no problem with any of that stuff, I’ve always wondered why people could go to Mass on Sunday and be such shits to people the rest of the week. “Some people,” my priest godfather once wagged, “Think Mass is some kind of magic show.”

Hocus pocus theology drives me insane. In fact, some people think “hocus pocus” comes from the whispered words of consecration used during the old Latin Mass – “Hoc Est Enim Corpus Meum” when the priest didn’t face the faithful and they had to ring a bell to let them know what was going on. (In the Eastern Rite, they still don’t face the congregation but sing Jesus’ words loud and clear.) Some of my classmates were so enthralled with the whole “Real Presence” thing that they sometimes pulled shit bordering on ecclesiastical offenses. We had one guy, whom I’ll call Jose, who kept the Blessed Sacrament in his room for private devotion which is a no no. So, one day, we broke into his room, removed the host from the gold pyx he stored it in, reverently consumed it, and then dropped the open pyx into his aquarium. “If you ever want to see Jesus again,” the ransom note we left read. “We want $50,000 in small bills or else.” As you can imagine, Jose’s reaction was epic.

The Eucharist, despite now being a stripped down meal, is still just that, a communal meal and never meant to be a private thing. In Pre-Vatican II days, Roman Catholic priests often would celebrate mass alone, which kind defeated the purpose. Who likes eating alone? In the Eastern Churches, last I checked, it is forbidden for a priest to celebrate the Divine Liturgy alone, a testament to its communal character. But boy, the rubrics and rules surrounding the whole thing can border on the ridiculous. “If you like, go into a bakery with a glass of Chardonnay,” I asked a professor, “And say the words of consecration, is everything in the bakery now the Body of our Savior?” It was the kind of typical smart ass remark I was famous for, but the answer I got blew my mind.

“No,” the professor calmly stated. “The priest can only confect the Eucharist (What is this, taffy?) on a specific place on the altar that is covered with a corporal. (A square linen cloth.) That’s the zone of intention and anything outside it is not consecrated.”

“So, if someone in the congregation had a roll in their pocket,” I said. “That wouldn’t undergo sacramental change?

“No,” the priest said with a straight face. “And it’d have to be unleavened bread anyway.” See what I’m talking about? But it gets even better.

A few years before I came to the seminary, our chapel caught fire and burned down. The upperclassmen still around who’d witnessed it would regale us newbies with the tale of a guy who, upon seeing the conflagration, tried to rush into the burning building to “save the Blessed Sacrament.” Luckily the Rector put a stop to that saying, in effect, “We can make more.” Did that lunatic really think Jesus wanted him to risk his life to save a wafer? I mean, c’mon.

I know some people think I’m being sacrilegious here, but I’m not. Though I’m no longer a practicing Catholic, I think the sacred elements should always be treated with devotion and respect, but I think people often lose sight of the fact that the Church, the ecclesia or assembly, is the Body of Christ too. While I might be crossing into heresy here, I’ve always thought that “Body” meant not just those gathered in St. Agnes on Sunday but the entire human race – no matter their religion or lack thereof. As the original Canon of Paul VI’s Mass read, Jesus said his blood was shed “for you and for all.” Everybody. So, if the sacramental celebration of the Lord’s Supper is divorced from meeting the needs of people who actually hunger and thirst, what’s the point? Living breathing people must be the zone of intention, otherwise, it’s all a magic show – Hoc Est Abracadabra and Alacazam.

Luckily, all the faith communities in my town seem to put their money where their mouth is. Whether they’re Catholic, Methodist, Episcopalian, Lutheran, Evangelical, Pentecostal, Hindus, Jews, or Muslims (Or schools, business, scouts, civic groups or just plain individuals) they’ve all donated to my food pantry many times. And, as I’m helping bring supplies in, watching volunteers sort donations, or clients carry out groceries. I realize I never really strayed far from where I started. I might not be clad in robes presiding over an altar swinging incense but, in a small yet very real way, with the help of my community – the assembly – I help people get their “Daily Bread.” And that’s the Eucharist too.

Funny how that worked out.

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]]> https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/05/give-us-this-day-our-daily-bread/feed/ 1 Yesterday, Today, And Forever https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/05/yesterday-today-and-forever/https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/05/yesterday-today-and-forever/#comments Thu, 01 May 2025 02:28:45 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=8332 My mother-in-law is of an evangelical flavor and, for her recent milestone birthday, asked us to attend services with her on Easter Sunday. “Sure,” I told my wife. “Why not? If I explode into flames, it’ll make all the papers.” “Uh,” my wife said, “We’re not going to a regular church.” “What do you mean,‘Not a […]

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]]> My mother-in-law is of an evangelical flavor and, for her recent milestone birthday, asked us to attend services with her on Easter Sunday.

“Sure,” I told my wife. “Why not? If I explode into flames, it’ll make all the papers.”

“Uh,” my wife said, “We’re not going to a regular church.”

“What do you mean,‘Not a regular church?’”

“It’s the Jews for Jesus.”

Chuckling, I could almost hear thousands of Catholic saints rolling in their reliquaries. ‘‘For your mom, honey,” I said, “No problem. At least it’ll be interesting.”

Arriving at the temple that holiday morning, we were greeted by several ushers chorusing, “Happy Resurrection Day!” Since I’d never heard it put quite that way, I replied, “And a happy Easter to you as well!” Taking seats in the back, my daughter looked at a banner over the stage and asked, “Who is Yeshua?”

“That’s what Jesus was actually called,” I said. “It’s a different way of saying ‘Joshua.’”

“That was his real name?”

“Yep. But when the scriptures were written in Greek, they translated Yeshua to Iēsous – Jesus_.”_

The service started with the blowing of the shofar followed by lots of singing, dancing and prayers before the Rabbi ran onto the stage and launched into his sermon. Energetic and joyful, he gave a detailed talk on how the resurrection of Jesus couldn’t have been some kind of put up job, crying, “The apostles weren’t that smart!” which elicited a laugh from me. Then as he listed more examples – many of which I knew, and some I didn’t – from extant Roman writers, The Talmud, The Acts of the Apostles and then ended with something that made my ears perk up. “And we know The Resurrection was real because we are all here today!” Then the service ended, and my family and in-laws took the birthday girl to a Mexican restaurant for lunch – but the rabbi’s words still echoed in my years.

The Resurrection is tough to wrap our heads around because when people die, they tend to stay dead. None of us have seen a person return from the grave. Not once. Not ever. The notion’s so far from our lived experience that you could forgive people for thinking it’s all a fairy tale. That hasn’t stopped billions of people from believing in it, however, but is it all wishful thinking? A way to assuage our own anxiety over death and enable us to persevere through life’s numerous heartaches? Even people who’ve gone to church all their lives sometimes question if the resurrection is just a bunch of malarkey. After my dad died, my grief stricken mother told me, “I don’t know if I believe in any of that stuff anymore.” You’d think with my background I’d have an answer for her, but I didn’t. But when you realize you’ll eventually lose everyone you’ve ever loved – or they will lose you – that can do a number on you.

I’d also be feeling death’s sting quite a bit lately. Within roughly a year our Boston Terrier Felix died, followed by my dad, and then my friend committed suicide.To say those events took the wind out of my sails would be an understatement. There had been too much loss. Too much illness and death and, when this winter seemed reluctant to give way to spring, I wondered if warmth and life would ever return again. Then a few weeks ago, my wife emailed me a picture of a dog. “What do you think about this girl?” she wrote.

My wife was broken up by Felix’ death but that didn’t stop my daughter from asking when we’d get another dog, “You have to give mommy time,” was my constant refrain but, truth be told I was getting antsy myself; playing with relatives’ dogs, petting those of strangers, and feeling that tug whenever I saw Felix’s old leash hanging by the door. After being a dogless home for over a year, Annie finally contacted the breeder who sold her Felix in 2009 to see if they had any puppies for sale. They didn’t, but had a four year old female Boston who’d “retired” from having babies and would we be interested. “Already housebroken,” I wrote back. “Let’s go see what we’ll see.” So, one week after Easter, I threw my family in the car and drove two hours to see a man about a dog.

“Rosie” was not Felix. Where he’d been svelte, Rosie was chunky and, after nursing fifteen healthy puppies, her udders swung prodigiously from her underside. But she was healthy, had good teeth, all her shots, gentle, loved playing with a ball, and very well behaved. “If you hang a bell by the back door,” the breeder said, “She’ll ring it to let you know when she has to go out.”

“Does she like to cuddle?” my daughter asked.

“She won’t go on your bed or the couch unless you put her there,” the breeder said. “She just likes hanging out on the floor.”

“We’ll see, Natalie,” I said. “Rosie isn’t Felix. She’s something new.”

After paying up and gathering all the requisite paperwork, we took Rosie home sleeping the whole way in my wife’s lap. When we finally arrived, she pranced through the house, nosily sniffing through every room before having something to eat, chasing a ball, and then dropping several large poops in my backyard. “Picking that up is gonna be your job, Natalie,” I said. Because it was now late, I sent Natalie up to bed and Rosie went right up with her. When it was time to tuck my daughter in, I found Rosie in the bed with her, snoring soundly. “So much for not wanting to get into bed,” I told my wife. “It’s almost like Felix never left.”

The next morning, I took Rosie to my job to get her licensed and all my co-workers came out to pet her and offer congratulations. Many of them knew the troubles I’d suffered over the years and were perhaps glad a bright spot had appeared in my life. Then I took Rosie home for a long session with her ball until she was exhausted. Feeling sleepy myself, I went upstairs to take a nap and Rosie, of course, demanded to sleep next to me. Listening to her snoring, I stroked her soft fur and remembered what a restaurant patron had once told me, “Life is a series of dogs,” not realizing what a hopeful statement that was until the moment.

When my dog Buster died in 2019, I was heartbroken but knew, one day, I’d get another one. The promise of that someday, that there was something to look forward to, was what sustained me. Humans are oriented towards the future’s promise; whether that’s looking forward to a new relationship, an upcoming wedding, dreaming of a vacation, better job or, as my daughter yearns, the day she can go to the mall by herself. Of course, the future we envision for ourselves isn’t always what it’s cracked up to but, when faced with disappointment, we just shift our hopes to something else. Life is filled with sorrow but our hope that good things and beautiful moments will keep occurring – and they do – is what keeps us going. Isn’t it funny how hoping for something tomorrow helps us deal with hardships we face today? How often do we hear about a seriously ill person trying to hang on so they can see a loved one get married or graduate high school? Hope is powerful.

Of course, lots of people dismiss exhortations to hope as a shopworn cliché, but it isn’t. When faced with sorrows, we often resignedly say, “Life goes on,” but that’s just the point – it does. Whether its spring following winter, a baby’s first cry, people falling in love, or sunflowers gloriously blooming on a shattered battlefield, beautiful, wonderous things always happen whether we’re able to see them or not. The unseen future always becomes the witnessed present. Therefore, our hope for more tomorrows isn’t delusional but, when you think about it, the very substance and direction of reality itself.

I’m big on looking for “signals of transcendence” in everyday life, little clues that reveal something of what God truly is. I think that hoping for the future, that life will go on, may be the biggest signal there is. Perhaps, our hopes for the future are a glimmer, an echo, of the Resurrection’s itself. The Church teaches that the Easter Moment happened within and beyond history which means it’s always been happening or, as St. Paul wrote, “Yesterday, today, and forever.” That life does go on, that a series of beautiful things keep happening no matter what is, for me, the sign the Resurrection is true and why “we are here today.” We are all here because two people, however imperfectly, believed in our tomorrows.

“Faith” as Pope Benedict wrote. “Is the substance of things hoped for; the proof of things not seen.” Lying in bed stroking Rosie’s fur, I knew my hope for an unseen dog had now become a witnessed present. She wasn’t Felix or Buster but something new yet strangely familiar. For me that was a “signal,” an assurance, that life will always be triumphant. The Resurrection’s promise revealed in a dog? I’m sure my theology professors are rolling in their graves, but that’s how I see it.

Yesterday,” I whispered, basking in Rosie’s warmth. “Today, and forever.”

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]]> https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/05/yesterday-today-and-forever/feed/ 2 What’s In a Name? https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/04/whats-in-a-name/https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/04/whats-in-a-name/#comments Fri, 25 Apr 2025 22:37:22 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=8308 Now that Pope Francis has gone to his heavenly reward, the handicapping and media hoopla over who’ll be the next Supreme Pontiff is underway. Although Francis stacked the deck, appointing eighty percent of the 135 voting cardinals, I wouldn’t put too much stock in that. As a priest friend of mine told me, the supposedly […]

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]]> Now that Pope Francis has gone to his heavenly reward, the handicapping and media hoopla over who’ll be the next Supreme Pontiff is underway. Although Francis stacked the deck, appointing eighty percent of the 135 voting cardinals, I wouldn’t put too much stock in that. As a priest friend of mine told me, the supposedly ‘liberal” Francis was picked by guys appointed by conservatives like John Paul and Benedict XVI.

Some popes like Pius XII and Paul VI were shoo-ins at their conclaves while Karol Wojtyla and Jorge Bergoglio weren’t even on the media’s list of papabile. Cardinals also sometimes pick a man to make up for the previous pontiff’s supposed “shortfalls.” The youthful Wojtyla, who would reign 26 years, was selected after the 33 day reign of Albino Luciani and sunny pastoral Francis after the reserved and academic Ratzinger. But I wouldn’t put too much stock in that either. Of course, people believe the Holy Spirit picks the Pope, but I’ve always thought that was kind of simplistic. “I would not say… that the Holy Spirit picks out the Pope,” Papa Ratzinger said. “Because there are too many contrary instances of popes the Holy Spirit would obviously not have picked.”

For example, Pope Benedict IX (1032) was pope three times, not only selling the papacy for cash but living such a dissolute life that one of his successors bemoaned Benedict’s “rapes, murders and other unspeakable acts of violence and sodomy” and concluded that “His life as a pope was so vile, so foul, so execrable, that I shudder to think of it.” I guess Benedict IX was the original ecclesiastical gangsta. The only guarantee the Holy Spirit gives is the new guy won’t turn the whole thing to shit. And if the Church made it through the Saeculum Obscurum, the Borgias, The Reformation, and the Internet, it’ll probably make it through whomever gets the white beanie next.

But the first sign of how a new pope might govern could be parsed from the name he takes upon election. If it’s Pius XIII or John Paul III, we’ll probably get a more conversative doctrinaire pope. If it’s Francis II or John XXIV, however, Bergoglio’s policies will probably continue. Or the newbie pope could select a name that hasn’t been used in years so as to give no clue to his intentions: perhaps picking Clement, Innocent, Gregory, or Leo. Stephen, the ninth most popular papal name would, of course, be a classy choice. But, if he really wants to screw with people’s heads, the new pope could reach back into history and pick:

Lando II (Complete with The Millenium Falcon. Where’s Billy Dee?)

Agatho II (He can write murder mysteries!)

Linus II (Good grief! A philosopher with a security blanket on his coat of arms.)

Dionysus II (The God of Partying! Good times!)

Peter II (That would scare the shit out of paranoid end of the world types.)

Constantine II (And do battle with demons!)

Eleutherius II (Like, what the fuck?)

Hilarius II (He does stand up comedy! But does he work blue?)

Hyginus II (He’d keep it clean.)

Simplicius II (The Forrest Gump of Popes)

Valentine II (Popes are like a box of chocolates. You never know which one you’re gonna get.)

Zachary II (Pope Zack bro!)

Or the new pontiff could go with the one of the most popular baby boy names in America!

Pope Noah (You’re gonna need a bigger boat.)

Pope Oliver (Here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into.)

Pope Theodore III (Pope Teddy! I can see the plushies in the Vatican gift shop!)

Pope Lucas (The Force is strong with this one.)

Pope Levi 501 (Or DI for the Latinists out there.)

Pope Benjamin (Show me the money!)

I’m also partial to:

Pope Otto or Felix (Dogs I’ve known and loved.)

Pope Telesphorus (Beam me outta here!)

Pope Natalius (The first Anti-Pope, but my daughter Natalie would get a kick out of it.)

Pope Sylvester IV – (I thought I saw a Putty Tat!)

Pope Eugene V (My name is Eugene.)

Pope Jules (“Latin motherfucker! Do you speak it?“)

Pope Conner (There can be only one!)

Whatever name the new pope takes, he has one heck of a job on his hands so let the cardinalitial sweepstakes begin! My money is on Cardinal Matteo Zuppi from Bologna or Jean-Marc Aveline of Marseille. Papal name? Clement XV.

There can be only one!

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]]> https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/04/whats-in-a-name/feed/ 1 Rest In Peace, Papa Bergoglio https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/04/rest-in-peace-papa-bergoglio/https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/04/rest-in-peace-papa-bergoglio/#respond Mon, 21 Apr 2025 16:32:40 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=8300 The post Rest In Peace, Papa Bergoglio appeared first on Waiter Rant. ]]>

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]]> https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/04/rest-in-peace-papa-bergoglio/feed/ 0 Pope Sixtus Strikes Back https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/04/pope-sixtus-strikes-back/https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/04/pope-sixtus-strikes-back/#comments Sat, 19 Apr 2025 19:08:54 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=8273 Now in the twelfth year of my reign and sick of all the ecclesiastical bullshit, I, Pope Sixtus VI, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Patriarch of the West, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the […]

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]]> Now in the twelfth year of my reign and sick of all the ecclesiastical bullshit, I, Pope Sixtus VI, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Patriarch of the West, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the State of Vatican City, Servant of the Servants of God, and Master of Pontifical Bling, issue the following solemn pronouncements ex cathedra from my secret lair in New Jersey:

If you’re a priest playing dress up in satin and lace to celebrate the Latin Mass, I won’t stop you. Your career, however, will be terminal at curate.
Open the St. Cajetan Resort & Casino in Las Vegas and direct all profits to pay abuse settlements. Get Joe Pesci and Bob DeNiro to run it. You won’t fuck with those guys.
Make Gammarelli sell women’s fashions. I can just see the Instagram accounts.
Let people receive the Precious Blood at Mass through a straw. (Which, believe it or not, is a canonically approved option.) Krazy Straws for the kids, however, might be a bit much.
Set up online AI powered confessionals. I promise, I won’t sell your information.
Drop this whole no homosexuals in the priesthood thing. That’s where I get half my guys anyway.
No more of this “And with thy spirit” shit. Now it’ll be “And also wit youse!”
Make all priests attend Mass in the pews once month so they see what it’s like to suffer through a bad sermon.
Kick all the tourists out of Castel Gandofo. It’s mine, mine, mine!
Dig ex Cardinal Theodore McCarrick up and put him on trial. It’s been done before.
Change the word “trespass” in the Lord’s Prayer to “debt.” Not only is it a more accurate translation, with the economic shit Trump’s pulling, it’s what we’ll all be in soon.
Dispatch an exorcist to the White House and U.S Congress. They need one.
Admit all baptized Christians to the Eucharist. Even the Mormons. It’s called market share, folks.
Install stadium seating in St. Peters with big screen monitors everywhere. Rent it out for concerts to keep the Vatican’s lights on.
Break up dioceses into thousands of smaller ones and create new bishops for each. That way there’ll be so many bishops that getting the job won’t be such a big deal. Right now, they’re all a bunch of whiny prima donnas.
When the above mentioned prima donnas send me a dubia, a list of questions suggesting I don’t know what I’m doing, reply, “Like, I’m infallible assholes.”
Take all the world’s billionaires on a tour of Mt. Aetna and tell them to get used to the view.
Figure out how to blast Prosperity Gospel hucksters with lightning from my fingertips. Darth Sixtus!
Give everyone ordered to self-deport from the U.S. Vatican passports.
Have Kayne West compose a rap liturgy. What could go wrong?
Still sell stuff. Lots of stuff.
Rename the Apostolic Penitentiary “The Big House” You’ll love Cardinal Bubba.
Give The Pieta to Disney in exchange for the rights to Star Wars. Right now, they’re just fucking it up. (Except for Andor.)
Let women become priests. They couldn’t screw up any worse.
Stop saying the Easter Bunny is satanic. There are better things you can do like feeding the hungry, giving drink to those who thirst, welcoming the stranger, clothing the naked, taking care of the sick, and visiting those in prison. Don’t waste God’s time!

Happy Easter Everyone! Dominus vobiscum.

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]]> https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/04/pope-sixtus-strikes-back/feed/ 3 Baby Soup https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/04/baby-soup/https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/04/baby-soup/#comments Tue, 08 Apr 2025 20:51:15 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=8252 When Martin Scorsese’s film The Last Temptation of Christ came out in the summer of 1988, I was on the cusp of my junior year of seminary. Taken from Nikos Kazantzakis’ 1960 book of the same name, the movie was about what Jesus would’ve done if he took a pass on being crucified and lived […]

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]]> When Martin Scorsese’s film The Last Temptation of Christ came out in the summer of 1988, I was on the cusp of my junior year of seminary. Taken from Nikos Kazantzakis’ 1960 book of the same name, the movie was about what Jesus would’ve done if he took a pass on being crucified and lived the rest of his life as a regular man. As you can imagine, this drove religious types batshit crazy and our bishop even sent us a letter forbidding us from seeing the movie. Of course, we went anyway.

After driving into Manhattan with some of my classmates and several priests in mufti, we walked over to the late great Ziegfeld Theater where we we’re greeted by a sight none of us would ever forget –hundreds of people protesting the movie. For a bunch of so called Christians, the angry vitriol they lambasted us with took my breath way. As they pressed against the barriers the cops set up to protect us, a street preacher thundered we were all going to hell while others in the fevered crowd called us godless communists, homosexuals, and haters of Jesus Christ. Then something hit me in the head.

“You okay, Steve?” a priest said, grabbing me by the arm.

“What the hell was that?” I said. Then I looked down and saw what hit me – one of those plastic fetuses abortion protesters liked to bring to their rallies. “You’re a baby killer!” a young woman screamed at me. “You’re a goddamn baby killer!” Looking at her crazed face. It was then I realized just how dangerous religion could be. Then we saw the movie.

If you haven’t seen Scorsese’s masterpiece, I strongly recommend you do. It is a beautiful film with superb acting and, despite all the furor over Jesus becoming a regular dude, the whole “temptation” ended up just being a hallucination Satan tortured Jesus with as he hung on the cross. Snapping out of it just before he dies, Wilem Dafoe’s Christ utters, “It is finished” thereby accepting the will of his Father and redeeming all humanity. When the houselights came up you could hear a pin drop. “That was the most beautiful film about God I’ve ever seen,” the woman sitting behind me said and, when I turned to look at her, she had tears in her eyes. Then, when we walked back into the heat of an August night, we discovered all the protestors has vanished.

Fast forward to 1989 when Last Temptation got released on VHS. Now a senior, I knew popping it into the community player would get an outsized reaction from my more conservative classmates and boy, I wasn’t disappointed. When their protestations to the rector went unheeded, a couple of them, led by Felix – the most joyless, rigid, dogmatic guy I ever had the displeasure to know – decided to kneel in front of the TV loudly praying the Rosary, blocking our view and ruining it for everybody else. But that was nothing compared to the stunt Felix pulled a short while later.

It all started when Felix asked to use my car to perform an errand. Out of some misguided sense of charity, I let him use it, only to find he’d driven it to an anti-abortion rally in Manhattan and it parked in a tow away zone. To his credit he got it out of the impound lot, but not after I had to suffer several days without a car. “I’m going to fix that sucker if it’s the last thing I ever do,” I said. I know, I know, that doesn’t sound very godly for a guy studying to be a priest but, as the Good Book says, “Vengeance is mine.”

The opportunity came soon enough. Since Felix was fervently pro-life, I knew he had some of those plastic fetuses anti-abortion protestors liked to toss at people in his room and, with the help of one of my more criminally inclined classmates, we busted into his room and found a garbage bag full of them in his closet. Still smarting from my experience outside the Ziegfeld, I said. “I have an idea.”

In addition to being a dour religious stiff, Felix was also very, very cheap. In addition to always bumming rides and never offering gas money, he also was a world class mooch. Always ducking out on the check or helping himself to other guys’ leftovers in the fridge, he’d do anything for a free meal. So, my co-conspirator and I went into the kitchen. dumped all the plastic fetuses into a pot filled with water, put it on the stove, and then told another fellow to whisper in Felix’s ear something was cooking. We didn’t have to wait long.

“Hey guys,” he said, practically bursting into the kitchen. “What are you guys making?”

“Oh,” I said. ‘It’s a delicacy.”

“Wanna see?” my helper said, stirring the pot with evil glee.

“Sure!” Then, salivating with anticipation, Felix peered into the pot. Cue the psychotic break.

“What the….!’ Felix yelped

“It’s baby soup!” I cried. “But you have to use month old fetuses because they’re so tender.” Then we ladled one out for Felix’s inspection.

“You’re sick You’re sick!” he cried running from the kitchen. “I’m going to tell the rector!” But the rector thought the whole thing was hysterical and poor Felix, well, he was never quite the same after that. Of course, he ended up becoming some kind of uber conservative priest who, last I checked, had never been entrusted with a parish of his own. Hmmm.

Chuckling at the memory over thirty years later, I thought about the book about seminary I’d never written. Then again, maybe I’ve been going about it all wrong. Perhaps it would be better as a screenplay in the spirit of Animal House. I’ve got a whole cast of cassocked characters and good stories at my fingertips. I know nothing about writing screenplays, but a catchy title would be a good start. Any suggestions? The winner gets a screen credit.

I see Hollywood in my future.

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]]> https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/04/baby-soup/feed/ 7 Sometimes You Just Want Time To Stand Still https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/03/sometimes-you-just-want-time-to-stand-still/https://www.waiterrant.net/2025/03/sometimes-you-just-want-time-to-stand-still/#comments Sat, 22 Mar 2025 17:53:05 +0000 https://www.waiterrant.net/?p=8204 I’ve been going to the same old fashioned barbershop for ten years. With a firetruck chair for kids in the window and an almost exclusively male clientele, it’s most definitely not a chic salon. They don’t offer manicures, facial exfoliants or a private room in the back for guys with “special” follicular problems. They only take […]

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]]> I’ve been going to the same old fashioned barbershop for ten years. With a firetruck chair for kids in the window and an almost exclusively male clientele, it’s most definitely not a chic salon. They don’t offer manicures, facial exfoliants or a private room in the back for guys with “special” follicular problems. They only take walk-ins and, if you come on a busy day, you’re gonna cool your heels on a hard bench with all the other old timers.

“Good morning, sir,” a barber said hopefully when I walked in. “Haircut?” Seeing my regular guy was busy buzz cutting a small child’s hair, I said, “I’ll wait for Vinnie.”

“Yes, sir,” the barber said, barely hiding his chagrin. I could’ve felt guilty, but I wasn’t. Vinnie always cuts my hair, and I believe in monogamy as far as barbers are concerned. I saw my previous guy for almost forty years. On the rare occasion I’ve let some one other than Vinnie cut my hair, I felt like I was cheating on my spouse – though I don’t have any experience in that regard.

“Hey, Vinnie,” I said, sitting on the bench. “How goes it?”

“I’ll be done with this young man in a minute,” he said while trying to trim hair off the squirming child’s neck.

“How old?” I said to the boy’s mother.

“Three,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“He’s doing pretty good in the big boy chair,” I said. “My daughter screamed and cried when she was his age.”

The chime above the front door tinkled and two old guys walked inside. “You waiting for Vinnie?” one said to me. When I replied in the affirmative, he sat next to me and started reading a newspaper. The other fellow, unwilling to wait, hopped into the chair of the less in demand barber. Cheater.

After brushing off the little boy and ringing the mom up at the register, Vinnie gestured to his chair. “Sir?” he said.

“How’s it going?” I said, sitting down.

“I’m tired.”

“This is your busy day.”

“And how.”

Vinnie is eighty-five years old and spends his down time at the shop whittling figurines out of wood or making ships in bottles, examples of which were displayed on his counter. When I asked him if he was ever going to retire, he replied, “And do what?” He’s one of those guys who’s going to work until he dies – hopefully not when he’s in the middle of giving me a haircut.

“A two today,” I said as he wrapped some gauze around my neck. “And take more of the top this time.” Other than letting girlfriends pressure me into getting a “new do” during my salad days, I’ve had the same Young Republican hairstyle almost all my life. When I was younger, I got mistaken for cop all the time.

Spying some foreign currency on Vinnie’s counter, I said, “Still collecting money from other countries for your grandson?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “He loves that stuff. That’s Filipino money there.”

As Vinnie started in with the clippers, I fell into a relaxed trance and watched as the morning sun refracted through a jar of Barbicide and cast an emerald spectrum on the floor. There’s something about sitting still while a man wields razor sharp tools near your neck that seems to slow time down. Despite his age, Vinnie’s hands are rock solid and, in another life, he could’ve been a surgeon. Then again, in olden times, that’s what barbers used to do. The red and white stripes of a their pole representing the blood and bandages they used to deal with back they were still considered physicians. Luckily, I had no putrefying boils to lance.

It’s often been said but, along with bartenders, barbers often fill the role of amateur psychologist or confessor. Vinnie has listened to me grousing about work, marriage, politics, kids, and my upset when I got diagnosed with cancer. Oddly enough, I told him about it before most of my friends. I suspect however, like a priest, Vinnie forgot everything I said the second I left his ersatz confessional. As he grabbed his scissors to do the detail work, I remembered I’d sat in this very chair an hour before the nursing home called to tell me my father was about to die. In retrospect, that half hour of Zen I spent with Vinnie helped me get through that terrible day. Then again, he’s probably so attentive because I’m such a good tipper.

About half an hour later, Vinnie held up a mirror to show the back of my neck. “Good?” he asked.

“Perfect.”

After an application of Consort hairspray and getting brushed off, I walked to the register to settle up. When I started here, a haircut was only fifteen dollars. Now it’s twenty-five. Maybe the tariffs Trump’s levying on everyone caused the price of Barbicide to skyrocket. After Vinnie made change from two twenties, I stuffed it into my wallet and then just smiled at him. After an awkward pause, I slapped my head and went, “Oh your tip!” and then pulled some Costa Rican colon bills and coinage out of my pocket. At the current rate of exchange, it came to $5 USD. I’d made sure to squirrel some away for Vinnie before I came home.

“Thank you!’ he said, beaming. “My grandson will love these.” I don’t think he cared about the amount, just that I’d remembered his grandson’s numismatilogical passion.

“The bills are made of plastic,” I said. “Five hundred colones is about a dollar.”

“Thanks again, kid.”

Walking out the door, I I looked at the bottled ships on Vinnie’s counter and reminded myself for the umpteenth time I should buy one off him. It’s no accident I’m faithful to an elderly barber. Eventually no one will be left to call me “kid” and I’d like a talisman to remember him by – but not today. Feeling the spring breeze flowing through my freshly shorn and Consort scented hair, I indulged in the fantasy that Vinnie would be my barber forever.

Sometimes you just want time to stand still.

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