My friend Rob saw a hot woman at the bank. He followed her as she drove off. At a stop light, he drove up next to her and got her phone number. I admire that. I could never do it.
Now, she's a Lefty and Rob's conservative, but through force of will and charm, he's made her his girlfriend. She was to be his date tonight to the Hollywood Bowl to hear the music of Brahms and Beethoven. Awesome seats, 30 feet from the stage.
Rob said we should meet at the bowl at 6:30 p.m. for a picnic. The concert started at 8 p.m.
I know Rob has a tendency to be late, so my date and I showed up at 7:15 p.m. No Rob. I call him on his cell. His date has cancelled. He's bringing "Canonical Ken," a lawyer in the Roman Catholic legal system (he's not a member of the CA bar nor does he have a secular law degree).
Date and I hang out in the Japanese Gardens with the Japanese. Along with the Chinese, they are my favorite type of ethnic Americans (because they get good educations, devote themselves to family and rarely have kids out of wedlock, unlike some other groups).
Rob and Ken show up at 8:20p.m. It would be fine to be mad at Rob, and frankly I was, but he bought me this apple pie health bar and I was overwhelmed by the awesomeness of our seats.
Canonical Ken's family used to design cross-bows. That's nothing. I was Hustler magazine's A--hole of the Month.
After the concert, Ken, who makes frequent visits to the Gregorian University in Rome, gets on his cell phone.
"Are you calling the Holy Father?" I ask. "Hey, Holy Father, rockin' Essa Pecker Solomon show tonight. Good enough to raise Jesus from the dead."
I was told to knock it off with the Holy Father routine. Tough crowd.
Rob can't find his car or his valet. I told him to just give his ticket to the nearest Mexican and all would be fine. Five minutes later, Rob finally takes my advice and we're on the road.
Canonical Ken drives with a maniacal jerkiness that would make the rack seem like a massage.
"Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!" I find myself screaming over and over again. I know I should be reciting the shma, "Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one." But it is Jesus who keeps coming to my lips as Canonical Ken careens down Hollywood Blvd at 40 mph weaving in and out of traffic.
That I cry out the wrong name for the divinity makes me fear that my conversion has not been genuine and that my soul remains untamed. Whenever I screamed "Holy Moses," it did not feel authentic.
My girlfriends, even during my atheistic years, noted my extreme religiosity during moments of high passion.
You can take the boy out of the Church but you can't take the Church out of the boy.
Rob says I'm a drama queen, needy for attention.
Rob and I resolve to learn Latin together so we can study Canon Law and Virgil in the original. We'll make firm appointments on a regular basis. That way I will know that no matter how frantic my life gets, I will be sure of having plenty of time to myself.
Rob rushes off. His GF is looking after a dying person in the hospital and will be staying the night. He wants to bring her an air mattress. I think that is sick.
