Q: Do you believe in original sin?
A: If you know someone who can be truly original, introduce me. I’m willing to try anything once. (Well, maybe twice if it doesn’t take up two spaces in the parish parking lot.) By the way, if you’re interested in having a really cozy time, my “Garden of Eden” seats 12. Comfortably.
Q: Were you upset that Holy Church lost its lease on Limbo, Ltd.?
A: No big thing. Unbaptized kiddies make for poor tenants. Always whining about something. Truth is: Mother Church needs to grow up. But, all’s not lost. Arthur Murray’s Dance Studio plans to revive the limbo. Thank heaven, I’m limber. (At least the last time I checked down there.)
Q: What’s your favorite (least favorite) Holy Day of Obligation?
A: I just love the Feast of the Assumption. I adore people – Protestant, Catholic, hetero recovering, LGBT-Q (Let’s Get Back to Quality) – who assume nice things about me and the Renegade Sisters of Mary. You know: fashion conscious to an angelic fault; ecumenically savvy at Planned Parenthood, P-Flag, Sex Addicts Anonymous meetings; ever virginal – but a little giving now and then – a spicy nip here, a buttered tuck there – where it counts most (and I’m not the talking about the collection plate).
Least favorite? April 15th. Too secular for my otherworldly taste and my Neiman St. Marcus pocketbook.
Q: Have you ever been born again?
A: Well, no. Religious and fashion role model that I am to thousands of Recovering Catholics, I got it right the very first time. I suspect in the case of Pat Robertson, Jerry Falwell, Fred “God Hates Fags” Phelps, their second births – no doubt immodestly labored through among the sweaty hoi polloi in some declasse revival or circus tent in mid-July – were breech births. As they say in the Vulgate vernacular: bass-ackwards. (Either that, or brain damaged the second go-around with slipshod spiritual forceps. Tacky. Tacky.)
Q: Do Christmas carols get you in the mood?
A: Oh my stars, do they ever! Especially old subliminal favorites like, “Joy to the World, the Lord Has Come,” “It Came Upon A Midnight Clear,” and, that perennial, power-of-positive-thinking favorite, “Santa Baby,” as sung by Eartha Kitt. “White Christmas” is a bit racist, ‘tho I do like the way Bing Crosby whistles through parts of it. I’ve heard he was a priest in 15 films, which may account for the church’s woefully sagging PR image (that and off-key choir boys who sue).
The problem with Christmas carols, as I, your humble servant, who likes to deck her balls with houghs — oops! sorry — boughs of holly, and don my DKNY wash-and-wear gay apparel, is that they lack inclusivity. How about, “We Three Queens of Orient Are,” “God Rest Ye Mary, Gentlemen”, “Hark the Harrod’s Angels Sing” and “Oh Little Town of Birmingham”?
Q: There’s a rumor that you’ve been holy ghosting Parting Glances.
A: BTL should be so lucky. What can I say? That Alexander guy is a dear, sweet old codger, and I will surely again this season give him something special for Christmas. (He likes battery operated toys, tho’ he usually needs help assembling them, and goes through dozens of double A’s in no time flat.) Write his column? Well, I have pointed out one or two blatantly loose conjunctions in the past and his alarming penchant for dangling participles. (No big thing!) Truth is: I create his art. Crazy as some of it is. Have a blessed lay, er, day.
Q: Do you believe in original sin?