Last Friday

Amanda, our waitress, took the photo at bottom, which sums up at least partially, the camaraderie we enjoyed at Twain's. The top photo is Davis, who was impeded by a previous obligation, and the middle photo has George, who came late, but provided, along with his wife, Carrie [not pictured, why?], much appreciated banter. Davis is replaced in the bottom photo by Brennan, his emissary and fellow student, who remained with us and more than held his own.
So the bottom photo is Jami, my wife - Ph.D in literature and authority on the grotesque and fund raising; myself, artist, minister, librarian, gadfly; Bob, shuffleboard nemesis, librarian, and long time friend; Brennan, scholar and Ph.D in waiting on biblical arcana; and Joe, preacher extraordinaire, and friend.
Joe, Bob, and I routinely met here where we expatiated on theological matters as they relate to beer, wings and nachos. Twain's provided the right ambiance for our forays into that liminal space where faith meets hops and hot sauce uniting to form pious ejaculations (that's what they call glossolalia when the pope does it in the mass).
Today I showed them perhaps the weirdest thing I have ever written. I wrote it while in Birmingham during my internship. It is a drawing with vignette so bizarre, so over the top, so grotesque - it caught even Brennan off guard; Bob was speechless; Joe ordered another beer. I would include it here on the blog sometime, but I have to be careful, as it might rock the very foundations of society and spell the end of the capitalist system - oh, wait.
It is a blessed and holy company that drinks and thinks together, and it is rare, needing the most careful cultivation. But I don't think we cultivated it consciously: it happened and we reveled in the grace of it.
I wish I could take that bottom photo and hang it over my desk.
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