Back when I was Warehouse Manager for Sherman Clay Piano and Organ in Downtown Seattle, I felt quite secure. A well-paying job, money in the bank, a grand piano next to my desk, no dress code (who's gonna fire the blue-haired guy if he's the only one who can run things?), and yes, health insurance. No worries, right?

One night, my friend Jennifer and I were making Krap Macaroni and Cheese. Indulging our already corrupt palates, we decided to add pungent cheddar cheese to the cocaine-like day-glo orange cheese powder provided by Kraft, "makers of fine foods."

Vigorously, I grated the cheddar over that mouth-watering mess of tawny noodley goo. After a heap or two of cheese strands, Jennifer suggested that we had enough. I shook my head no and continued grating.

Bemused, but also peeved, Jennifer insisted that we had enough. I smiled, "Just a little bit more," and continued grating.

"No, we have enough," she said adamantly. Playfully grabbing my wrist, Jennifer tugged and tried to pull the grater away. She's stubborn and I'm stubborn, so I resisted. She pulled with all her might. I, leaning away from her, dug in my heels.

It happened in a flash, or should I say slash? Fingers streaked before my eyes, then for several seconds I couldn't see. The grater rattled on the floor. In pain, I slapped my palm against my face. Jennifer had pulled, I had yanked, and she lost her grip, sending her fingers flying into my eyes.

A few seconds later I felt fine. I removed my hand and blinked a few times. I could still see. Then, unleashing the most blood-curdling scream I have ever heard in my life, Jennifer cried "You're bleeding! Your eye is bleeding!" Scared, I ran to the bathroom mirror and saw a small cut in my left eye.

"Let's call 911."

"Not yet." I answered. Who was gonna pay for the ambulance anyway? Calmly, I removed my contact lens and looked at my eye close up. It was leaking blood, but not profusely.

Sensibly, Jennifer declared "I'll take you to the Emergency Room. I'll pay for the cab."

Finally remembering that I had health insurance, I agreed. "Yeah, yeah, let me dig up the insurance stuff." Quickly, I pulled the folder from my slender file box (ah, the good old days!) and paged through the forms.

Now a digression: Back then, there was a famously funny commercial for Pace Picante Sauce. Set in the Old West, a bunch of cowboys, gathered about the fire for chow, pass around a bottle of picante sauce. "Where's this stuff made anyhow?" asks one. The cook shrugs his shoulders. Another rumpled cowhand reads the label and indignantly bellows "New YORK City!" Betrayed, the other cowboys turn to the hapless cook with murderous, flinty-eyed glares.

I found the right form and instantly saw the big bold phrase that made me exclaim "Five HUNDRED dollar deductible! FUCK THAT SHIT!" With flinty eyes, I mumbled to myself, "It's Tech Level Zero: There are no doctors. Get well by yourself." And besides, I reasoned, as a contact lens wearer, I've had my fingers in my eyes for years. Common sense might carry the day.

I waved away Jennifer's frantic protestations and her generous offer to pay. It wasn't her fault and like hell if I or anyone is going to pay a rip-off $500 deductible to those insurance pirates!

Manfully I strode to the mirror and squirted my eye full of saline solution. The salty fluid hurt like hell, but at least it would flush and sterilize the wound until I found the rubbing alcohol. I applied some of that too and held my eye tightly shut for the next half hour. My eye ached, not from the wound, but from the pressure. Soon enough, the little cut, about half a centimeter long, healed up nicely. And those pirates didn't get one cent!

Many years ago, my pal Jeff made a barrage of phone calls and corralled everyone for a night of drinking at a local pub. I was the first to arrive. Jeff asks how things are going.

"Oh I dunno. OK, I suppose. I threw out a batch of expired condoms."

Jeff's eyes bulge. He sputters my last sentence in disbelief. "You... threw out a batch... of expired condoms?"

I nod. I was thirsty. Expecting slow table service, I go get a beer. I return.

"You threw out a batch of expired condoms?" Jeff still couldn't believe it. I wasn't going to get away from this one.

A few minutes later, a pair of friends arrive. Jeff greets them and announces, "Chris said a really funny thing. I asked how he was and he had this glum look, saying 'I just threw out a batch of expired condoms.'"

We laugh and talk about other stuff, the great booth (in bars seatage, or where you sit, is everything. Poor seatage assures a poor night out.), when Happy Hour ended, and so on.

Eventually more people arrive. This time, Jeff greets them and retells the story. "So Chris shows up looking dejected. I asked him 'Big Guy, what's going on?' and forlorn, he says 'Ah, I threw out another batch of expired condoms.'"

We laugh and scoot around the circular booth so everyone can fit.

Several beers thence, more friends appear, and Jeff decrees, "Before you sit and join us, you must hear the quote of the evening. It is required. Earlier I was sitting and pondering the various vagaries of life when Chris, all gloom and glum, sat down. I said 'Big Guy, what's going on?' and with a long forlorn sigh, he says 'Alas, I threw out,'" Jeff pauses for emphasis, "'yet another batch of expired condoms.'" Amidst the chorus of 'no ways' and 'whoa dude' and 'my Gods' we laugh, resuming our drinking and carousing.

Later, the table is packed. Our booth is ringed with chairs and all of us are "deep in our cups" that is, drunk to an unholy degree. Starting from his stupor, Jeff spikes a pointy finger into the air and mustering an unexpectedly sober oratorical gravitas, proclaims "Some of you have not heard the tale, nay, the saga of the evening. Earlier when the sun had yet to set, the Big Guy, our dear comrade Chris, lumbered through the door. As he loped across the threshold, I could see, if not espy, the weary weight upon his shoulders. His long, forlorn face was glum and gloomy, disconsolate and redolent, no, radiating despair."

With a sweeping gesture, Jeff had compelled the table's attention and continued. "I said 'Big Guy, what going on?' and with a long forlorn sigh, as if expelling the weight of the world from his lungs, he says 'Alas, I threw out,'" again pausing for emphasis and declaiming each word slowly and evenly as if announcing the apocalypse. "'yet... another... batch... of... expired... condoms.'"

After a dramatic pause, Jeff hoisted his glass above the center of the table. "Let us celebrate the man who has walked where none of us wish to go."

Solemnly, everyone raised their glasses and toasted my misfortune. As I hadn't dated anyone in awhile, I appreciated the toast. Yet by that time, I was too drunk to mention I had other condoms too. I had just forgotten about the batch in back of the drawer.

Several summers ago I polished off several beers with my pal Mark, a down-home fella from Louisiana whose perpetually friendly smile and a willingess to root thumbs-up for hard-rockin' musicians: "He's gettin' it man, just like Hendrix, he's gettin' it!" made him the kind of guy you want pouring your beer. That Thursday, I left his house just before midnight. Unlike the previous weekend, I was not exorbitantly drunk but suffused with a gentle, oh-how-lonely-the-moon-looks melancholy.

I stepped outside. The moon was nowhere and the night was dark like spilled ink. Mark lived a few blocks from my place so I strolled slowly and savored my wistful thoughts, of which the specific character is unimportant, but common to the lovelorn and those in sympathy with such sentiments.

Diagonal to my house stood an old brick church, cursed, not by some ancient crime or juicy scandal, but by neighbors irked by the constant overflow parking that spilled up and down the street for 4 blocks in both directions. The Sunday glut of cars bothered me too, but since I had a driveway, I just cursed the nonsensical right-wing Christianity preached therein.

The church did have one redeeming feature: a view of downtown Seattle's twinkling skyline. As I mounted the church steps to soak in the view, I felt a twinge in my belly. Figuring it was the beer -to save a trip to the store, Mark had scavenged some almost-clear swill left from an earlier party- I ignored my discomfited gut and sat on the wide brick bannister atop the stone steps.

The view shimmered like a gold and glass tiara seen from across the room. As always when gazing on soaring airplanes and city skylines, I dreamt of glamorous travel and unusual lands. My reverie, fueled no doubt by alcoholic spirits, was interrupted by a strange thud from behind.

I turned around. A car door slammed shut and the car sped off. I don't know how much time passed after that. I remember looking again at the city, whose view had dimmed somewhat, and the sky, where above a silhouette of a black moon-sized disk could be discerned. My skyward stare was interupted not by another closing car door, but by series of thuds, clunks, and a crash coming from inside the church.

Why someone would burgle the church was beyond me. There was probably nothing to rob -Bibles are still free, I think- so perhaps someone clumsy was working late. I stood up and looked in the window, which, like all the windows in the neighborhood, was dark. I glanced up and down the street and saw no one.

I heard a low moan, a muffled cry, and more savage thud-thud-thuds. What could be going on inside? I crouched out of sight of the window and crawled over to the big wooden arched doors. I pressed my ear against the door and heard a most fantastic cacophphony of moans, cries, wails, and whispers. The cries seemed to emanate from different places in the church while the thuds had a distant, hollow quality.

What could that be? One person could not make those sounds! My mind raced. I recalled that meetings of 'Christian charismatics' often ended with speaking in tongues and moaning, but the screeching was at once redolent with pleasure and despair. The booming thuds were too dull to be a drum. Thinking quickly, I also realized that I had not heard a single word of English. The whispering and low mumuring was in some staccato, gutteral tongue. None of these strange sonic phenomena was synchronized or in any kind of tempo normally heard in music. After several minutes of listening and sweating. I had to find out what was inside. I located the door and almost tried the knob when I saw a keyhole.

I peered inside and saw light. There must be someone inside! I looked for at least a minute and saw no one. I tilted my head to one side and shoved my ear against the keyhole. I heard everything and realized that the morass of horrendous wailing, crashing and susuration was assuredly close by.

Who -or what- was making those sounds? I closed my eyes and imagined voices murmuring and bodies moving and slithering together in unholy celebration. The short moans and gasping whispers conjured visions of blood-anointed lovers sprawled atop the altar, unseemly coupling amidst pews, and spastic writhing beneath stone saints.

Had I missed the careful slitting of the sacrificial knife across a pale-skinned victim or was the carefully chosen mockery of divine sacrifice happening now, accompanied by celebratory perversions? Perhaps I had stumbled upon a more banal rite, a haphazard bacchanal of eager sacreligious fucking?

I had to investigate. I stood, grasped the triangular door handle and pushed gently. It was unlocked. I peered through the crack and saw a dimly lit antechamber lined with shelves of church newsletters, tracts, and other nonsense. Although the sounds of the orgy continued apace, I saw no one.

I opened the door and snuck inside. Catlike, I quickly dropped to the floor to avoid being seen. I crawled towards the pews and tried to discern what was in the darkness. The moans, cries, and thumping thuds were louder, urgent, and filled me with terror.

The altar was empty, there was no rampant coupling. I couldn't see anyone. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness and then edged closer. Soon, I espied several shadowy forms doubled over in the pews. I looked to my right and was startled to see a man sitting patiently in the darkness. I stared at him for countless minutes passed until I decided to act.

I stood and approached him. Wearing a white t-shirt and baggy possibly khaki shorts, he could have stepped out a college fraternity party or as picnic at local park. Timidly, I affected in an inexplicably phony British accent and asked, "Excuse me, sir, is this a Christian serivce?"

As if nothing were amiss, the fresh-faced fraternity brother smiled, and replied, "Oh, sure - this is how our old people worship - praying for the spirits of our ancestors."

By his face I took him to be of Korean descent, which solved the mystery. The church leased space to a mainline Korean-American congregation which was known to use the church on odd days and hours. I thanked him and left.

Years later, I told the story to a Korean acquaintance who also was the son of a minister. He told me that back in Korea the authorities had tried to stamp out this hoarse-voiced, wild-eyed blend of Christianity and ancestor worship, but to no avail.

To this day I am haunted by the impassioned erotic polyphony of moans, wails, and groans of that secret church service. Perhaps one day I will find another one - with my microphones in hand.

From my report to Ed Bremer, station manager:
Here is the strangest thing that has happened to me while hosting the sonic stratosphere at KSER 90.7 FM. On Wednesday April 3, 2002, at 10:06 pm someone rapped on the glass door. The fellow's face looked like a familiar volunteer, so I opened the door. I quickly realized it wasn't anyone I knew, but given the musicianly attire - nice leather jacket and stylishly narrow gold rim glasses - I supposed they might be scheduled to perform live and showed up on the wrong night. Maybe they were fervent admirers of the sonic stratosphere!

Off to one side, I spotted his t-shirt clad pal, who was nursing an expiring cigarette. The better dressed of the two introduced themselves, "Hi we're two local artists in the neighborhood - in fact we were just having a beer next door and wondered if you would like to interview us on your show. We're right here and," pausing for emphasis, he exclaimed, "it's an opportunity!" Tapping his saggy shirt pocket, he added "We'll make it worth your while, too."

Smiling but confused (were they offering me cigarettes?), I gathered my wits, and asked them about their music. Based on their description ("the Dave Matthews Band is a big influence," "We're local - we recorded our cd a few blocks away from here"), I told them that interviews are scheduled in advance at the discretion of the Music Director and/or a particular DJ, so they should send their CD to the Music Director and... "Oh we did that" they said, and added somewhat archly "Do you think you could find our CD in the library if you looked for it?"

With feigned sheepishness, I replied "Any other DJ could I'm sure, but I'm doing a show right now. I cover experimental music and don't know the rest of the library too well. As a performer myself, I've been in your shoes. I've done a few radio performances and interviews and the best way to approach..."

Ignoring my sage advice, the fellow in glasses bluntly - "That's all nice but listen, I got an idea..." - offered me $100 to put them on the air for 10 minutes and play some tracks from their CD, whose name vanished from my mind (Crimson something preposition something...) the moment I heard it. Breathlessly, he continued "...and we could run back to the phone and call our friends so they could hear us on the radio!" I politely refused and stated that accepting money would be against the law and no one pays to be interviewed or played on KSER or should try to do so at any other radio station for that matter!

The bespectacled fellow remained friendly but persistent. "So who's the poorest DJ on staff? Can you give me a name? Maybe they could use 150 bucks." With nonsensical cheer, I replied "Well, we're all idealistic volunteers here and pretty incorruptible." I added that I needed to get back to the board and wished them luck.

Maybe they were drunk, though in retrospect I didn't smell any alcohol and I've got a good nose for that sort of thing. Maybe they were the FCC?