From Flickr's Creative Commons by Northhampton Museum

Many of you know that I’ve embarked on my latest project – Nothing Personal – with Andrew Newton. We’ve covered 10s of thousands of miles around the globe, crossed oceans and mountains, suffered nights on trains, planes, and buses, recorded days of interviews, and met some amazing people. Andrew arrived to Muncie last week and when we haven’t been getting him tested for malaria (that’s another story), we’ve been working on the Nothing Personal book proposal.

So far our project has been a success. Much more of a success than our recent trip to the local butcher here in Muncie.

Meat is manly, especially bloody meat surrounded by the sharp cleavers and knives that cut the bloody meat. That’s why there are few places more manly than a butcher’s.

We approach the counter of dead animal. I wait for Andrew to say something. Andrew waits for me to say something. Each of us hopes the other knows something about meat.

“Can I help you?” The woman behind the counter asks.

We look at each other and the realization sets in that neither one of us knows jack about meat.

“Yes, what steaks would you recommend for two adult males and one adult female?” Andrew says.

She stares at us. Perhaps it was Andrew’s accent and the way he puts a long “A” on adult. Perhaps it was the way we were nervously sweating as we watched our respective manhoods slip away.

“Well…ladies tend to like the New York strip and men the T-bone,” she says.

We both turn to the T-bone. It has more meat on it than an entire cow in Ethiopia. It’s huge. Taking it all in requires turning your head from side-to-side.

The head butcher steps up when he sees us floundering.

“Whatchyou fellas need?” He says with an East-coast accent and a bit of gravel in his throat. It’s a manly voice.

We turn to the New York strips, the ones the woman butcher told us the ladies liked. “Boy, those are kinda thick.”

“No problem,” the butcher says, “I can cut ‘em in half for you.”

“Oh, I can cut them in half when we get home,” I say.

“I doubt that,” the butcher says without the slightest bit of sarcasm. He grabs a hunk of meat and a sword-like knife.

Bam. Bam. Bam. Three ladies’ steaks cut in half.

We sheepishly approach the counter and pay for our pansy steaks. But as soon as we exit the world doesn’t know what transpired within.

We are just men leaving the butcher’s, carrying meat, and it doesn’t get much more manly than that.

I slept with the Prophetess. How many folks can say that?

Yep, probably not the best way to begin a query.

Needless to say, I probably won’t be hearing from them. If they made it through the whole sleeping with the Prophetess bit, they were probably put off by the question that followed. Sleeping with the Prophetess is bad enough, but bragging about it…

It was one of those pitches that I sent out between a bologna sandwich and a diaper change. Somewhere post-diaper change I realized that they might think that I, in fact, slept with the Prophetess (not just a prophetess but THE capital P Prophetess). Actually, I spent the night in her son’s apartment on a small couch. It was an amazing and powerful experience that I hope to share soon.

The opening sentences I wrote might be appropriate in a query to a Christian Porno Magazine.

Dear Porn-Again Christian,

There I was in the slums of Nairobi. Seeing all that poverty made me horny. And then I saw her dressed in a purple uniform. Our eyes met. She said, “I can see the future. And I see you and me…

(Okay, I’ll stop there. I was starting to weird myself out.)

This got me thinking about other inappropriate ways I could start a query.

A pitch about how curious children are: I once stuck my finger up a Doberman’s butt.

A pitch about how I feel bad killing lighting bugs when I drive: I’m a killer.

A pitch about a bond between a mother and a son: My mother took me to my first topless show.

A pitch about Key West: I was molested by a 6’5” drag queen.

I could go on forever. But I should get busy sending out some new queries.

If you have any other “Ways Not to Start a Query,” I’d love to here them. @kelseytimmerman me on Twitter or leave ‘em in the comments.

Sincerely this guy (I’m considering using this shot in my bio and sending it along with all my queries. What do you think?),

]]> http://whereamiwearing.com/2010/06/28/%e2%80%9ci-slept-with-the-prophetess%e2%80%9d-and-other-ways-not-to-start-a-query/feed/ 3 http://whereamiwearing.com/2010/06/20/how-i-learned-the-hard-way-not-to-give-your-father-the-finger/ http://whereamiwearing.com/2010/06/20/how-i-learned-the-hard-way-not-to-give-your-father-the-finger/#comments Mon, 21 Jun 2010 03:08:19 +0000 Kelsey http://whereamiwearing.com/?p=2359

All I have to do is say or think something after which it would be incredibly ironic if a bird pooped on my head.

For instance, today, I was crossing the Liffey River in Dublin looking up at a statue of a famous man.  Streaks of white poop ran down his metal forehead.  I thought to myself, “Boy, someday I hope I’m famous enough to be a statue that birds poop on.”

The sky parted.  A distance “ca-caw” could be heard on the Irish summer breeze and then BAM!  I was hit!  I instinctively ducked in case it was a squadron of bombers.  I put my hand to my head to survey the damage. And damage there was.

Green. Chunky. Damage.

I’m not sure what birds in Ireland eat, but that bird wasn’t healthy.

The first time I used my superpower was in Baja, Mexico.  After a long day of diving, I was on the deck of the dive boat chatting with over-privileged teenagers about our day.  I was their dive instructor and they were hammering me with “What if” questions.

“What if my buddy and I both run out of air at the exact same time?”

“What if there is a current and we’re being swept out to sea away from the boat into a circling school of sharks that have laser beams strapped to their heads?”

You get the idea.

That’s when I said, “What if…what if…what if a meteor shoots from the sky and sinks our boats?”

BAM! To the delight of all, I was blessed by a seagull in the head, across the face, and down my shoulder.

I hope this stage is me just feeling out my power and understanding how to control it because it would be pretty sweet if I could summon birds to poop on someone else’s head.

Hey Mr. Strutting-down-the-street-in-your-muscle-shirt-two-sizes-too- small.  You might think you look cool now, but wait until a bird poops on your head.

Howdy Ms. Cut-me-off-in-your-shiny-red-convertible.  Ever have a bird poop in your eye while traveling 70 mph?

Any superhero worth the Spandex, sees their power as a curse as much as a gift.  Fortunately, if great power comes with great responsibility, I’m pretty much off the hook.

—
If you had the power to summon birds to poop on someone’s head, who would be your victim?

photo by Justin Ahrens of Rule29

I covet your faith. I’m not sure if that breaks any of the commandments or not. It probably breaks several. Still, I do.

My time with Life in Abudance was awesome for several reasons. One of them is that I had a chance to be around people with such strong faith.

I’m surely surrounded by others with such faith, but there is a separation of church and day-to-day life. I appreciate the separation. I don’t want others telling me what I should believe and I don’t want others telling others what they should believe. Religion and politics are in the “don’t go there” category for me. Unless I know someone is up for an honest and open discussion, I avoid them at all costs.

The last time I prayed, I think I was praying for a puppy dog. It’s been awhile.

Going into this trip with a Christian NGO, I knew that faith would be front and center. And at some point mine would be called into question. I wasn’t sure what to do. Do I stay in the closet and hope that I’m not called on to bless the food or share some spiritual insight? Or do I step off the plane, drop my bags and say, “The heathen has arrived” while making little devil horns with my fingers and flicking my tongue? Of course, I’m joking about the latter one, but honestly was I supposed to walk in and say, “I don’t have faith in Jesus like you do?” To me that’s like walking in to a room full of strangers and declaring who I voted for, or where I stand on abortion and gun rights.

Each night the group sat down and talked about the day’s events. These were deeply personal conversations. We talked about the children in the slums and when we thought of our own children it broke our hearts. Grown men were brought to tears (I’m looking at you Tonan).

But then they would talk about God and Jesus and about how what we had seen challenged and strengthened their own faith. That’s when I would go silent.

Gradually I was outted. Maybe it was when I dropped the quote: “To the hungry, food is God.” One of the team members pulled me aside and asked me, “Where do you stand on the whole faith thing?”

I answered honestly. I suck at being anyone else. And I was accepted. One of the team members said that he thought I was brave for coming on the trip. It really didn’t concern me that much. I’ve lived with and traveled with folks whose cultural and religious traditions were far more greater than my own, including Buddhists and Muslims. I was raised catholic – an altar boy in fact – and like to think that I shared the values and concern for the poor that all the others in the group did. We just had this one thing that we didn’t share. I relate to Jimmy Buffett, a former altar boy too, who now claims to be an altered boy.

I prayed more in that week in the slums of Nairobi than I have in any other in my life. The first prayer in the slums was led by Bruce, who is a pastor in Illinois. Along with two other team members we were crammed in a 10X10 shanty with a single mother and a few of her six kids. We bowed our heads, held hands, and Bruce began to pray.

By the time Bruce was done, my eyes were watering. It wasn’t some spiritual revelation that hit me, but it was just how beautiful and important prayer can be as a form of communication. We don’t sit down with strangers and loved ones alike and express how thankful we are for them, how much hope we have for them, and how much we love them. Heck, I don’t even think about those things myself nearly enough. The passion, compassion, and the honesty with which Bruce and later the other team members prayed touched me.

I didn’t mind the team members knowing about my faith, but I really didn’t want the families we visited to know. That’s when I was uncomfortable. Several times during my 24 hours in the slums, I was asked to bless meals. The first time I said, “I hear myself pray all the time. Why don’t we let someone else.” (Lying about praying has to be worse than coveting faith.) Of course, they insisted. Thankfully, I had learned from Bruce, Anna, Amanda, the Justins, Tonan, Von, Brian, Bob, Gus and Earnest how to pray.

I want the poor to have faith that tomorrow will be better and if not tomorrow, then maybe the next day, and if not in this lifetime then the one after. The mother of the family I spent the night with was a “prophetess.” She saw a future that was a better life for her and her family. She was also bulletproof, but that’s beside the point. When I walk around the slums of Nairobi, I hope that others see a tomorrow that is better than their today. No, I pray they do.

I was having a conversation with Justin, the US director of LIA, about some of these things and I mentioned how important I thought faith was for the poor. He misunderstood me and started talking about having faith in the poor. The poor possess ingenuity, a zest for life, a beauty that I can’t put my finger on, and great potential. That’s the saddest part of the slums. There is so much never realized potential.

Von, a member of our group who is an artist, would start drawing and kids would surround him. One day he was armed with a bag full of notepads and gave an impromptu art lesson. One of the kids was amazing. Von saw his potential and slipped him a few extra notepads and pens. He must have told him to keep drawing 30 times. That day Von’s greatest fear was that this kid would stop drawing. Von has faith in the poor as every team member among us now has, if we didn’t have it before.

I’m trying to figure out poverty for myself. I’ve written a book on it and I’m still not sure how I feel about the conditions in the slums, the discrepancy between the haves and have-nots. The other team members turn to God to make sense of it. That must be nice.

I totally covet their faith.

I’m thankful for having shared this experience with them. They taught me that it’s important to have faith in the poor and for the poor to have faith.

Amen.

I’ll keep blogging if you keep reading!

There was a fish between the moon and me.

Pausing right there in the center of the silver ring. It was a parrotfish eclipse. That or a signal to the crime-stopping Parrotfish Man.

I floated 20-feet beneath the surface just off the sea floor, as if in space. A bubble of air escaping from my mask, rising like a shooting star.

Inside my lungs, a gulp of salty air. Outside, the Atlantic Ocean. I held my breath. I breathed in the sight.

The night was a gift. The surface of the water, indiscernible from beneath, didn’t even have a ripple, allowing the moon and the stars to appear as untouched as if I were on the surface.

Minutes passed, but were forever captured.

I’m not sure how many times the Earth had rotated around its axis since the first of the year. But it was Earth Day. Well, not an actual day, but a moment, a moment unique to Earth.

There was life-giving gas in my lungs, an embryonic ocean surrounding me. A universe that stretched light years in which any closer or farther from the slowly rotating planets and stars, the moment would not be possible.

I shared the moment with a parrotfish. It swam from the moon leaving a galaxy of sandy poop. I broke the surface and took a breath.

Because on Earth that’s what we do.