On apostates

I really think last night’s Rocky Horror show was the best I’ve ever seen. The floor act had clearly spared neither effort nor expense perfecting their costumes and props, perfectly co-ordinating their line dances with each other and the film in an orgy of fishnets and improbable stilettos. Still, my favourite moment was when the pre-movie costume contest was won not by the contender who flashed the most skin, but by the Virgin Mary, complete with halo and beatific smile (and late third trimester belly). There must have been a lot of lapsed Catholics in the crowd ‘cause she only had to show a little thigh to win first prize. We in the audience overwhelmingly agreed she deserved the free body piercing. (Maybe that’s where her son got the habit.)

Later, I even touched her robe — we brushed shoulders as she was returning from fetching beer at the bar. For a moment, I almost felt a flutter of vestigial spirituality in my chest, a glimmer of that time I believed in certain knowledge of the inexplicable, when I had a faith that simplified all existential doubt at the mere cost of an unexamined life.

I soon felt better, though.