Friday was Good Friday. We went to our parent/sister church, Seaside, for an evening service. I performed a monologue about the cross I'd written in college called "Malchus". It went really well. Strange performing something from my school days, though. A bit like jumping in the Way Back Machine and giving the high school production of You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown another go-'round. But, the reaction was overwhelmingly positive, which is always nice. In fact, the worship leader, Moses Toth (who writes and produces Christian musicals), asked me to help him re-write his latest opus for performance this Christmas. So, that's cool.
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Easter was lovely, and our good friend Ben Bays came down from Northridge to spend the day with us. After church and hosannas in the morning, we headed back to Long Beach for a full Easter feast, prepared by Carey. The brand of ham was "Hog Wild" (with a picture of a delighted chef-pig on the label, which almost made us feel guilty) and Carey was innovative enough to make a very strange gravy for the mashed potatoes consisting of ham bits, flour, milk, and a can of beer.

So, after spending the day with Ben, we wrapped up our evening and began to retire to bed. I'd just taken my trousers off in the bedroom when I heard Carey shriek in the hallway... "Whaohp!"

I'm thinking, okay, what did the cats do? What's broken? What's spilled? Who threw up on the carpet? And then, I heard a distintly male voice in our living room: "Hi, is this Barry's place? Am I in the right apartment?"

And, friends, I don't know what came over me. It must have been the hunter/gatherer/protect-the-family-farm side of my persona or something. But, I jumped up, underwear and all, and bolted toward the living room. The guy continued: "Barry said he was going to leave the door unlocked... is...?"

As I was rushing toward this unknown fellow (who's voice was decidedly effiminate... it didn't exactly take an Ivy League education to guess what this guy wanted from "Barry"), my only thought was how badly I was going to hurt him for breaking into our home. I guess it's partially my fault for forgetting to lock the door, but the guy was, by all accounts, an intruder and I was prepared to seriously f*** this jamoke up before letting him near my wife. I don't care if you're gay, straight, black, white, or friggin' Jehovah's witness, dude. You're going down.

The guy ran back out the door yelling, "sorry, sorry, I'm sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry..." and I followed him, yelling, "it's okay, get out, it's okay, get out." I slammed the door and locked it and that was that. Still a little spooked, I gave the apartment a once-over to make sure no one was in it. Oh yes, there are crack addicts and gangs and all manner of a-holes in Long Beach. You just can't be too careful.

In the end, I never really did get an eye on the guy, but Carey told me that he was a baldish fellow in traditional Gay Ghetto attire. I'm sure it was just some confusion concerning the whereabouts of Barry's orgy or somthing. But, what in the holy hell, you know? I don't care who you are, you don't just walk into somebody's living room if you're unsure who they are. Please! We have a doorbell! It works!
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Went and looked at a house over the weekend, courtesy of the realtor. I dunno. It wasn't really doing it for me. It's in the restoration part of Long Beach, i.e. the sucky part of town that the government is trying to turn into the trendy part of town. Not a bad place, I guess, but parking is our biggest headache in our current spot and it looked as though the problem would be two-fold over there. No garages anywhere. And the house was obviously maintained very poorly. And, the big kicker, they want 10% down up front. Since Carey and I don't have $14,000 laying around, we may need to pass. But, I guess the hunt has begun.