My Life as a Genius Episode Two: Fakin' at the Foot of the Altar

This is a story that takes place in Monterey, California, when I was nine or ten. I had become an altar boy at the military chapel at the Presidio of Monterey.

Relax—it's not one of those stories. In fact, in the year or so I was an altar boy at the Presidio chapel, I never once had an uncomfortable moment with any of the priests I worked with. Perhaps I was lucky, but more likely they were just a bunch of decent guys who lived what they claimed to believe. [Sadly, I have close relatives who were not so lucky. Google "Pinkosh v. Diocese of Honolulu" for details.]

Anyway, we altar boys were the traditional crew of young beasts and sinners that churches inevitably get stuck with. No doubt this was because we were boys. For the most part, nine- and ten-year-old boys are young heathens. We made little exploding frisbees out of coffee stirrers and threw them at each other. We told disreputable and highly inaccurate stories about what sex might be like (it being all theoretical for us at that point). We snooped around the vestry if we could do so without being caught. Pretty mild stuff, actually, but compared to serving Mass it seemed dyed black with wickedness--well, medium brown, anyway.

It being a military chapel, the priests worked in an unpredictable—for us—rotation. There were a couple of Army Chaplains, some locals, and a lot of old chaps. A really mixed bag compared to a lot of civilian parishes.

Another feature of the military chapel is that it was shared with other groups from other faiths. All Christian, as far as it went, with the possible exception of the 2:00 PM "SUN Worship" that the sign in front listed. Well, we knew it was just an abbreviation, but we'd chuckle when imagining folks up on the roof chanting away, losing heart if a cloud should block the light.

Like I said, nine- and ten-year-old boys.

The heart of the operation was a man named John Henry. That was his name: Specialist 4 John Henry. He was the "Chaplain's Assistant," which meant he was essentially the go-to guy for everything that went on at that chapel. He made sure we altar boys knew when to show up and what to do when we got there. He took down the gold crucifix and removed the gold candlesticks after the Roman Catholic mass and replaced them with more a more modest plain cross and candlesticks in silver for the Protestants who were up in an hour. He even ran two enormous Christmas plays and a Passion play during my tenure there.

John Henry always warned us about the Prayers at the Foot of the Altar. These had become optional under the changes in the Mass under Pope Paul VI, but as John Henry reminded us, "Some of the older priests still like to say them, and so you'd better learn them." These prayers were, back in the day, quite lengthy and in Latin, and required the altar boy to resond a few times in Latin.

Fortunately, the version they were using when I was an altar boy were in English, and consisted of three statements by the priest, each having a response from the lad in question. I would like to tell you now how those went:

But I can't. I tried Google, but all I could find was an older Latin Version, the English translation of same, and all of that on Websites about the Roman Catholic Tradition, which seems to belive the Mass was perfected about 1570 or so. There's also a lot of stuff about home-schooling one's children and impeaching Obama. I am not making this up!

I can't tell you much about the version we used, because I never bothered to memorize it. I know, three sentences. Well, it was difficult because A) they were three sentences of Biblical language unlike any I spoke normally, and B) I was too busy slacking off to bother sitting down for the time it would take to remember them.

Like I keep saying: nine- and ten-year-old boys.

My ne'er-do-well peers were all similarly unconcerned about learning those three responses. As far as we could tell, when John Henry said, "some of the older priests," he meant Father Bolenciwicz, and old Polish priest who muttered the Mass with a very heavy accent.

I knew that the schedule, being somewhat unpredictable, meant that I would end up serving for Father Bolenciwicz sooner or later, so i would have to memorize those Prayers at the Foot of the Altar sooner or later.

Guess which I chose.

Finally, I made a half-assed stab at it, and to this day it is as clear in my mind as it was back then:

Priest: Something. Something. Something.
Me: Something else. Something else. Something else.
Priest: Something. Something. Something.
Me: Another something. Another something.
Priest: Yadda Yadda Yadda.
Me: And your people shall rejoice in you!

Yes, all that time and I had only one line of three memorized. I was pathetic. But time was on my side, I felt.

But one day time ran out.

It was a afternoon Sunday mass. These were not as busy as the 9:00 AM Mass, but there were a number of people who went to that mass. The chapel tended to be about a quarter full. So I hustled up the hill from our house on Larkin Street to the chapel. I got there in plenty of time, only to find out that the Celebrant that day was—and this wouldn't be much of a story otherwise—Father Bolenciwicz!

I was doomed. Unless I could wrack my brain and remember the first and second responses. I slipped on the old cassock and surplice, all the while thinking of two things: what were the responses, and what would happen when it became obvious that I did not know them? It would be very embarrassing.

Father Bolenciwicz came in in plenty of time, donned his vestments, mumbling the prayers that accompanied each item, and then sat down. He was quiet and did not say anything. We had a while before Mass was due to start. I went out to light the candles on the alter and by the lectern. I was a real whiz with the cable lighter/snuffer. (I sometimes cringe when I see people today smushing the candles out—one should be able to snuff a candle without touching it!)

I went back in, and then it was time to go. Father Bolenciwicz took up the chalice, topped with the cloth like a stole, the small dish, the folding envelope that held the host, all of these covered with the cloth that matched whatever color of vestment the liturgical calendar called for. I took up a small cruet of wine and one of water. We went out a side door, walked to the steps leading up to the sanctuary, and we knelt. It was time!

And then Father Bolenciwicz mumbled—he was a mumbler—the first line of the dreaded Prayers at the Foot of the Altar. Any hope that I might get cued disappeared. So I did the same. He mumbled and I mumbled. It sounded like this:

Father B: Mumble Mumble de Mumble.
Me: Mumble Mumble Mum.
Father B: Mumble mumbledum mummus mumble.
Me: Mumble mumble mumblety bum.
Father B: Mumble mumble Mumble...
Me: And your people shall rejoice in you!

Hey, a clear strong finish. And on to the Mass, which I knew well.

After Mass, Father Bolenciwicz said, "Come here. I need to tell you something."

I approached, my heart in my throat.

He lifted his hand and placed it on my shoulder. "You are very good altar boy. You are the only one who knows his Prayers at the Foot of the Altar."

I never think of that incident without mixed feelings of pride and guilt. I went on to bigger and worse sins, and I no longer follow the Catholic—or even the Christian—path, but I still feel bad about faking it with Father Bolenciwicz. I am sure he went to his Master many years ago, and was rewarded as the good man he was.

As for myself, I feel that the incident taught me the wrong lesson.

Exploring the Lost Cities of Geo

Here is something that I thought I'd never see again. It's my first website! Like many people back in the late 1990s, I decided that the world needed to hear my opinions and sample my creative work.

Well, that hasn't changed, apparently, but the level of sophistication has. To be accurate, the sophistication of the tools has improved; whether my thinking or my content has improved is really not for me to say.

Back then, kids, we didn't have this fancy WordPress or Blogger; we had Geocities and you actually had to know a little HTML. Which is why the pages often looked so bad; we were not skilled enough in HTML nor experienced enough in design to make an attractive webpage.

To give myself a little credit, I never had red lettering on a chartreuse background. Nor did I use flashing text. There are limits even to my poor judgement.

Geocities was closed down in 2009. The operator, Yahoo, certainly gave us plenty of advance notice and we were able to download our materials. But it closed down, and the rest was history.

But there are those who wish to archive everything on the web, and there is a new Geocities: www.geocities.ws

And so I can go back and see my first website in all it's glorious lack of consistency, taste, and value.

Actually, I am being too hard on myself. Other than big plans and small effort, it's not really all that bad, but it never really got much of an audience, and I lost interest and became too busy to think of it much. This, of course, is how adult life goes. My front page gives the usual apologies for the lack of new content, and makes the usual promises of more activity.

And there it has sat for 11 years. The three-year-old child referred to is now a young woman of fourteen, I'm officially qualified as an old fart, and I still write at a snail's pace.

Geocities.ws will actually let you reclaim your old pages and edit them. Unfortunately, It does this by scanning your page for email addresses and assuming that one of them is yours. One _was_ mine, but it was a _Mindspring_ address which has been purely defunct for many years. I am sure I can get control by contacting the good folks at the new Geocities.

But why bother? Let archives be archives. The old pages are there should anyone want to see them. My efforts should be going to newer work and I should be moving on. All the same, there they are. Look on my works, ye mighty, and be kind.

My Life as a Boy Genius: Anecdote One

I bill myself here as Paulie Rockets, Boy Genius. But I’ll let you in on a secret:

I am no genius.

Now that I’ve knocked you right out of your chair, let me explain that I do not know what a genius is. The only definition I have ever heard involved the old Stanford-Binet IQ scale, which has been shown to be inadequate when discussing all the ways that people can be intelligent. So, I do not really know what a genius is, but I am clearer on what  genius isn’t. Thus I say with certainty that I am no genius.

I used to think I was pretty bright. I now think I’m a good strong average.

But I’ve always been a bit goofy.

Let’s go back to my college days. I was quiet and kind of shy, and not one of those guys who had a rollicking college life. Still, I enjoyed my college days. But my idea of a good time was a little different from some people’s. Oh sure, I liked pizza and beer with friends, but I had a different habit when I was in grad school.

Grad School. University of Hawaii at Manoa. Early eighties…

I had a little treat for myself on Thursday nights. I would eat my dorm cafeteria dinner, go to my room, and get ready to go out. And then what I would do then was walk down the campus, down University Avenue, and then down Beretania Street. I would pause at the Fujipan bakery, just inhaling the smell of good baking—pastries and bread—and then when I got to where Kalakaua Avenue and King Street and Beretania Avenue came together, I would hit the two used-book stores on opposing corners. 


Here are a map and pictures

First I would browse in Interlude Books, the neater of the two stores, see what there was, chat a bit if my brother’s friend John McCain was working there (He was the emergency spare Pinkosh Brother) and usually I would buy a book or six. Then I would go across the street to the used-book store diagonally across from Interlude, the legendary Froggie’s. Froggie’s had been around forever, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it still existed in one form or another; it was one of those places that just survived, changing addresses every so many years, but hanging on. Inside it was chaotic and perhaps a bit dusty. Other than being sorted into very general sections, it wasn’t really organized. You could find the Literature section, or the Science Fiction and Fantasy section, but the sections themselves where chaotic. Oh, there was an attempt made to organize books by author, but the shelves were so full it was futile.

In short, it was an excellent place for serendipity. I cannot tell you how many books I found that I thought were unobtainable, or that were just too rare to show up in a cheap used paperback edition. The fun was in never knowing if you would find what you were looking for, and in finding something quite unexpected and exciting. And this happened almost every time I went there.

It really was a cool place.

Then, after spending my pre-planned allowance (I had had to learn to limit my expenditures) I would walk back to campus up King Street. Beretania and King were parallel streets about a block apart, both one-way heading opposite directions.  I might get a cold drink on the way, and then go back to my room where I would either study a bit or read my new purchases.

I did this almost every Thursday night each semester for about three years. What can I say? I was a bookish nerd English major grad student.

Then one night I decided to switch it up a bit just for the sake of variety. I decided to walk down King and up Beretania. And now that I think of it, I was going widdershins.

It was slightly different, but not really in any interesting way. I walked up King, stopped in at Interlude, went to Froggie’s, bought a couple of things, and then went up a block, and started my return trip along Beretania Street.  About halfway along, I got to the edge of the Honolulu neighborhood called “Chinese Hollywood.” Most of Chinese Hollywood had been destroyed in the building of the H-1 Freeway, but some of it remained, mostly wooden bungalow-type houses from the 1930s and 1940s, which is perhaps how it got its name.

And in the yard of one of those little bungalow-type houses I saw a girl hanging from the branch of a mango tree.

I was about 23 or 24 and I noticed female humans regardless of circumstance. And this was interesting. The house, across the street from me, was small but it had an enormous mango tree. Mango trees tend to be large, and this one was above average. There was a young Asian girl hanging onto a branch, swinging back and forth and giggling, just a bit. It was night, she was in the shade of the tree, but I could tell that she was very young and kind of cute.

Young and cute, what’s not to like? I stood and watched her for a moment. She noticed and laughed. I crossed the street.

She had a cardboard box with a few mangos in it. She was leaping into the air, grabbing a branch of the tree, and trying to pick mangos with one hand while hanging from the branch with the other. The branch easily held her up; she was small and rather slender. But her methodology was not all that productive. It’s hard to pick mangos with one hand while swinging from a branch.

“Want some help?” I asked, ever the chivalrous, genteel horn-dog. Well, In those days I thought I could de-emphasize the horn-dog part if I were genteel and chivalrous enough. But this girl  just dropped to the ground with a mango in her hand, plunked it into the box, and laughed again. I realized she didn’t speak much English.

She jumped up and grabbed the branch with both hands, and I started plucking mangos. Held down by her weight, the branch was just low enough that I could pick about eight or nine really fine mangos. She dropped again, jumped and grasped another branch, and I again picked some really fine mangos. The whole time she was swinging back and forth, her legs swinging. In her mid-calf skirt, she looked like a bell.

Then I grabbed a branch and pulled down. I did not want to damage the tree. But it was a sturdy old tree, and the branch came down quite low, and the girl was able to pluck every mango off that branch with no difficulty. We did this with several branches, and even without any words on her part, and very few on mine, we managed to coordinate our hanging and picking, switching roles every so often. It was excellent teamwork.

Finally, when we had the box about half full (it was one of those boxes apples come from the packers in), she decided  that she had picked enough. She tried to hoist the box, but it was a good crop year for mangos, and the box was heavy. So I put my bag of books in the box and lifted it up.

“Do you want me to take it inside for you?” I said, pointing to the door of the house. She shook her head. “Where would you like me to take them?

She answered by beckoning me forward, then leading me out to the sidewalk in front of the house. Then she lead past a couple of houses to the side street.

There, parked on the side street, was an enormous Cadillac. It was black, and simply huge. Standing by it were two other women, not so young and not so cute. The were dressed in slinky evening dresses with slits up to mid-thigh. Even under the streetlights I could see that they were heavily made-up, and a bit hard-looking. The one closest to me was wearing extremely high stiletto heels. She unlocked the trunk and gestured. I put the box of mangos in the trunk, and just had time to snatch my bag of books out of it before the stiletto-heeled woman slammed the trunk. Then all three women quickly got in the car, the youngest one nodding at me once, the driver fired up the engine, and they peeled out.

In Honolulu they have something called Korean Bars. They are not always run by Koreans, but often enough that the name sticks. They sell over-priced drinks and over-priced snacks to men who are encouraged to spend as much as possible by the hostesses, who usually dress in a provocative manner and sit next to customers and sometimes get into a little physical contact—anything to keep the customer buying drinks. The girls will also ask the customer to buy them drinks—usually a champagne cocktail that is beyond pricey. The “Champagne” is usually sparkling cider, as bar employees are prohibited by law from drinking alcohol while working.

I’m sure they have these sorts of places everywhere. “Hostess bars.” “Clip Joints.” Whatever.

And I realized that I had just helped some joint somewhere in town improve their bottom line. Somewhere some chump was paying big money for a dish of mangos and soy made with mangos that I had just helped steal.

So no, I am seriously not a genius.