Bookends

"Please, don't offer me anything. I'll tell you what I want"
-J. Black

As I left for work yesterday morning, the doorbell rang. This was surprising, because I didn't actually know we have a doorbell. Apparently, there's a buzzer by the main door, which leads to the upstairs apartment rather than to mine. Go figure.

Two middle aged ladies in sundresses were indiscriminately ringing doorbells. I asked if I could help them. They said "hello!" with an excess of neighborly spirit and a European (German? Polish? hard to tell) accent. "Can we offer you something to read?"

They were carrying pamphlets. There was a cross on the cover. I said no thank you. That was that.

Tuesday morning was sticky-hot and cloudless. Two men in white shirts and ties were knocking on my neighbors' door. A young boy, also wearing a tie, was kicking a rock on the sidewalk.

I don't think either of us was happy with the situation.

Okay, so I understand that they're doing this for my benefit, in accordance to the principles that govern their lives. And they were nothing if not jovial and polite. The Inquisition this ain't (then again, nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition).

Still, it's a bit offensive to be told "you're wrong, unless you agree with us". This "sharing" of the good news has a strong implication that my life is inherently worse for lack thereof. It is, at the very least, patronizing.

Doesn't it degrade one's own beliefs to be a door-to-door faith salesman? It reduces religion to comparability with a pyramid scheme.

This whole affair, which could only have happened in a place that isn't the Grad Dorms, makes me appreciate my friends that much more. Some are religious, some are atheist, but all are comfortable with each other. We avoid proselytizing, and in doing so we demonstrate our mutual respect.



Half a day later, I finished my bike ride and peeled off my jersey. The doorbell rang, and I ventured outside to greet my visitor, forgetting that I was pouring sweat and wearing spandex shorts (and nothing else).

Waiting at the front door was a college age girl wearing overalls. We exchanged greetings, but she was clearly a bit taken aback. She recovered admirably, though, and launched into her sale:

"Hi, I'm with NJPIRG. Do you know what PIRG is?"

Yes. Yes I do.

I didn't have the heart, nor the blood sugar, to tell her that I so despise her organization that I've written a thousand-word diatribe about it. Which is probably for the best. She bid me adieu and moved on to exploit the next household.



Being Tuesday evening, I had the great pleasure of meeting Bearded Megan for Beers and Noble.
The vast majority of what we discussed is private, thankyouverymuch, and will therefore not be reported here. Or at all. Other parts, such as the unceasing amusement provided by the motley crew of Tuesday evening bar patrons, I'm happy to describe.

A couple of weeks ago, for example, we saw an Axl Rose impersonator. It was a brilliant likeness, and it was probably unintentional, which actually compounds the brilliance.

Megan and I, sitting in a booth and people watching, were approached by a very attractive young lady carrying a tray of shots. She asked if we would like any shots. Of course I said "no thanks"... but I found myself yearning to say yes. I didn't actually want any shots, but it was very difficult to say no to this girl.

Listen up, Clarissa, 'cause I'm about to explain it all: Sex sells.