Last night, I was over at the Copper Gate (my new favorite bar) drinking a more-then-generous amount of made-in-Ballard aquavit with my friend Ben, when I stepped outside to have a smoke.

I pulled one out, lit it up, and with my exhale, glanced across the street and saw Jesus Christ waiting for the 18 bus.

That is exactly what happened, in my mind, at that moment, without any question.

As in, “Huh. Well, whaddya know, it’s Jesus. Waiting for the bus. Cool. Hope he knows where he’s going: that route’s a bitch.”

I had a very brief moment, then, of wondering if I was supposed to say something, maybe wave, maybe offer him a smoke. Maybe tell him to get on the bus to freaking Canada, fool, because if he stays in the states, he’s going to get string up by some of his own followers in no time flat, or find himself ministering to his fellow prisoners in Guantanamo Bay. (Maybe, some other part of my mind thought, the sorbet arrived since I stepped out here, and it’s getting mushy right now, which would really suck.) After my initial moment of just being very pragmatic about it, see, I had to wonder if my quiet acceptance wasn’t the proper response, since everything I have ever read or heard from people who felt they had seen Jesus tended to be much more dramatic. The sky wasn’t even cracking open or anything, nor did I feel saved. I felt a little chilly and wished I’d brought my jacket out, and I really wished I could be having my smoke indoors where it was cosy and there was grain alcohol nearby. If I was going to get saved, you’d think I’d at least get to finish my cocktail.

But before I could consider that further, a passing pair of headlights illuminated the figure a bit more, showing me that what had initially looked like a long, muslin gown was really a pair of very loose pants and a very loose shirt, which actually did vary slightly in tone. The John Lennon spectacles weren’t a giveaway, since I’d not have been surprised at all if those were Jesus’ eyewear of choice. The long hair didn’t help, either. But in that moment, I realized that I hadn’t seen Jesus. I’d seen some teenage kid on his way home whose Mom would likely offer him a sandwich when he got there before yet again begging him to get a haircut for the 387th time this week.

Throughout all of this — which, of course, happened very quickly in my head — Ben was standing next to the mute friend I’d become, so when I’d come to, I had a bit of explaining to do.

Here’s the thing: I’m not a cynic about people’s mysticism or religious experiences.

I don’t exactly take many of them at face value, without question and a generous application of reason and logic, but I also do figure that the world’s a weird place where just about anything can happen, and where weird things often to, especially to me, almost daily. So, if it turned out that say, we all found out some day that everyone who had said they saw Jesus or Elvis (including those who conflate the two) really had, I’d be somewhat suprised, but I’d probably accept it pretty quickly. I did an awful lot of LSD in my youth: I am well-practiced in the art of adjusting my reality very quickly, and tend to gladly welcome giant shifts in my universe with a big grin and a wild clapping of hands. I dislike flying largely because it feels so strangely static for so long: I’m the only person I know who hates flying but immediately feels almost 100% about it all when there’s turbulence.

So, the fact — for that brief moment — that I was seeing Jesus didn’t really phase me. Mind, I often tend to have that response with celebrities of any stripe: I always think I’m going to spaz out like a lunatic when I meet them, and lo, I usually just wind up being quite casual, to my great surprise.

(There is a lone exception to this. When I lived with Michael, because he and Pete Seeger worked on books together, Pete called our place with some frequency. And every single time I picked up that phone and it was Pete, I could not even stammer out a single word before passing the phone — and I really, really tried to — not even a “Just a minute, I’ll get him” or even a monotone “Please hold.” It was a god calling the house, for crying out loud, and committed folkie that I was, I could not even for a half a second, feel worthy of speaking to Pete Seeger. I’m sure he thought Michael either lived with someone hearing-impaired or just with the rudest person on the planet.)

Years ago, through a strange confluence of events and a very bizarre connection (which took place with me doing a reading for him on the phone mere minutes after breaking a molar in two, that was fun), I went up to New York to spend a few days with Anton Fier, who was interested in seeing what we might write together at the time, and in me possibly doing some spoken word for him. Long story short, crazy weekend, very intense bonding, but record companies and contractual matters suck eggs. During the daytime of that visit, he went to the studio while I stayed at his place and wrote my little heart out to see what I could come up with for him (it was great stuff, and I’m still pissed we couldn’t do anything with it).

With some reticence, I’d agreed to answer the phone for him and take his messages while he was gone. I’m one of those ADHD types who has the hyperfocus, rather than the distractibility. If I’m in the zone working on something, someone can stand right next to me talking and I will often neither see nor hear them. So, when the phone rang at a point in which I was in the thick of my words, the following happened.

Ring, ring!
Me: Hello.
Them: Is Anton around?
Me: No, he’s in the studio today, leave a message?
Them: Sure, just tell him Iggy called.
Me: You got it.
CLICK.

Grumbling at the interruption, I grab a piece of scrap paper and a pen, and I start to write: Anton: Igg—

At which moment I realize, fuck me, that I was just on the phone with Iggy fucking Pop, and I treated him like a telemarketer. When I gave Anton the message later, I asked if that was THAT Iggy, to which he nodded while I proceeded to kick myself repeatedly.

Now, I elect to think famous people probably prefer this sort of treatment, say, to some woman screaming “HOLY FUCKING CHRIST YOU’RE IGGY FUCKING POP!” Iggy, Jesus, whoever, right? But I do usually tend to wish later that I hadn’t been SO casual or blithe. Or downright rude, as the case may be.

And I’m afraid I have to admit, now, that even if it really had been Jesus, I’d regret not having some good gab with Iggy more than not having same with the son of god. Or maybe, just like some of the Elvis-Jesus conflators, I’m more inclined to think Iggy is Jesus than Jesus himself, which seems plausible enough. But then, I guess a lot of things do to a person who sees Jesus waiting for the bus and worries about her melting dessert.

* * *
Just a quickie for those in the Pacific Northwest: I have a few events coming up soon here in Seattle as well as in Victoria, B.C.

October 1st: S.E.X. Reading/Q&A
7:30pm, The Collard Room, Swans Hotel: 506 Pandora Street at Store Street, Victoria
Free admission, all ages

October 2nd:DIY erotica workshop
7:30pm, Camas Collective Books and Infoshop: 2590 Quadra at Kings, Victoria
Self-identified women only, $10 suggested donation
Advance tickets at: http://www.sexedexchange.org

November 3rd: “Be the Media” panel at the NARAL Youth leadersjip Summit, University of Washington. This is still firming up, but to my understanding I’ll be leading an interactive panel for young women about feminist media critique.

I’ll also be in San Francisco to accept my Champions of Sexual Literacy award on the 11th, but I’ll have a little bit of time in there through the 14th. I have not had any events set up for me in San Fran, so if anyone would LIKE to set something up — a reading/ Q&A with the book, a joint gab session for adults or teens or both, even an afternoon for a photo session (my photo session time has been nabbed already) — please drop me a line soon. I’ll want to see a couple friends while I’m there as well, but I also have time for an event or two, especially since that’ll pretty much be the end of promotional events for me for a while (thank christ… and the bus he rode out on).

filed under Heather Corinna | subconscious life | s.e.x. | events
posted on Monday, September 24th, 2007 at 10:17 am

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