This is a very very steep set of stairs that leads up to Portland Heights.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
So she got a ride...
View from the top. Phew. Now I just need to get back home.
Easter is a very important holiday to me, both because I am fascinated with the whole Jesus/crucifixion/resurrection story and also because I have an unusual fondness for hard boiled eggs.
On Good Friday (and when is a Friday not good, I ask you) I sat with my girls E and M and we all tried to hash out the Easter timeline. Before you assume I have formed some sort of bible study group, please note that this conversation took place in a nail salon before happy hour. Everyone should get a mani-pedi to celebrate Christ, don't you think?
M is the only Catholic in our group, and E follows a religion that worships Chardonnay on the cross and a pack of Marlboro Lights on the altar. I know this because I recruited her to my church, you see. I'm a deacon.
E: "Why don't you have the ash thing on your forehead?"
M: "Um, because we do that on Ash Wednesday and today is Good Friday."
E: "Oh! So today was the Last Supper, and it was really yummy, so that's why they call it Good Friday?"
M: "Noooo, the last Supper was the night before the Crucifixion, which was on Friday. That's why it's called Good Friday."
Me: "Ok, I am confused. First of all, that doesn't sound like a very Good Friday to me. I've had some bad dates and bad mushrooms on Fridays past, but nobody ever nailed me to a cross and made me stay up there until I died. What's up with calling it Good Friday? Should be Really Shitty Friday if you asked me."
M: "Oh, well, you see..."
Me: "And another thing, how long did it take for him to die up there? I assume they came for him sometime in the morning, right? I doubt the Romans got up especially early to pick up JC for his appointment with the more nasty side of government. Those Romans were a wild and crazy bunch - they probably had an orgy the night before that went late.
So say they arrive around 9 a.m., do the whole 'banging on the door, get yer ass out here Jesus schtick,' take him to Golgotha (which is NOT located in a central part of town plus during rush hour this probably took at least 45 minutes to an hour), and hoist his petard up there. I'm sure the nails in the hands and feet sped things along, but wouldn't it take him a while to die up there?"
We all looked down. Chow was one of our nail "technicians" and I had no idea she had been listening to our conversation. I wasn't even sure she spoke English, but she rubs a mean foot and paints a pretty toe, and as long as she doesn't try to do a French manicure on me (these are forbidden by Tom), we get along famously.
Me: "Ok, Chow, thanks. So as far as I can tell, the earliest he may have finally expired is what, between 10-11 p.m? Assuming there was very little traffic on the road that night, his buddies MIGHT have been able to slot him in the cave by midnight. Maybe."
At this point M looks disturbed, E is laughing, and Chow is fingering her cuticle cutter a bit too deliberately. I think I may have offended her, which concerns me, because I truly make it a habit to never offend anyone, especially with something I have said. It's my best quality!
Me: "My point is, ladies, if he died late Friday night and he came out some time Sunday, how is that three days? It's really more like a day and a half."
Chow and M chimed in simultaneously: "He rose on the 3rd day, not after 3 days."
I was perplexed. "The third day of what? The third day of this incredibly bad weekend that started with the woefully misnomered "good Friday?"
[By the way, those of you who are wondering if "misnomered" is a word: me too. I wondered too. But then I realized that this is my damn blog and I can create my own vocabularity (rare words) if I want to. Remember "Schadenfreconomics?" Enough said.]
Later we treked up to my house and continued the discussion with the aid of communion wine. It was a very enlightening afternoon and one which I would never forget had I not done so already.
Last thoughts for the day as I wait for my potato dauphinoise to finish and we head out to see Tom's family for easter dinner:
I have enjoyed all the press coverage lately regarding Belloti's 2.3 million dollar handshake deal to get money rained upon him when he decided to move along to the next best thing, also known as a cushy gig at ESPN. Or maybe it wasn't working out for the University, and they wanted him gone. Maybe, as is usually the case, it was a mutual decision and neither party was to blame, or at the least they could shoulder the burden of blame equally.
Regardless, Belotti made a lot of money while employed by University of Oregon. He was handsomely compensated for his work and this deal stinks. It stinks to high heaven, up there where Jesus hangs with his dad and the Ghost Dude. Why would you consider paying someone for years AFTER you were no longer connected to them? It's crazy, right? Shouldn't Belloti have to sink or swim on his own, now that the relationship has been severed? He doesn't even have to work anymore, what with this cash bath the college is giving him. He could just sit on his rear the rest of his life collecting his monthly checks. Or at least for the next six years, anyway.
Come to think of it, this sort of thing happens every day...
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