I just want to crawl into bed naked with Stephen King (pardon me, Miz Tabitha, on the very slim chance that you're reading; I mean with Wolves of the Calla), but I have to get this down while I can. Today was the Archbishop's Mass at Our Lady of Good Counsel, the day where Archbishop Alfred Hughes came to "address our concerns" about our parish being suppressed. What that added up to, of course, was a lot of platitudes about how "we must all work together in this difficult time" and a statement in which he actually used the Eucharist as a kind of tactical weapon to suggest that we were desecrating the Body of Christ by protesting. Horrible, horrible man. Horrible, horrible hierarchy. How I hate them.

We had a protest with signs before and after, and shouted slogans (I think I ruptured my poor sore throat) and talked to the press and all that. I'll probably be on the late news if any locals care. I don't. I have never felt so empty after a Mass in my life. I know a lot of people reading this don't believe in transubstantiation, and I'm not sure I believe in it literally, but I know it makes something inside me feel good. Not today. I've only taken Communion, what, maybe a dozen times since I was accepted into the Church? Every other time, even at Chop's funeral, I felt something good. Today -- even though I took it from Father Pat, not that stinking Hughes -- it was a cracker. "I like little dry things," I thought. "I could snack on these." Nothing else went through my mind at all. I felt the Church had been desecrated by his presence. During the protests, he flapped a hand at us that pretended to be blessing but felt nothing but contemptuous.

We will not close. But it hurts to see the evidence, right up close, that the man who is supposed to shepherd every flock in New Orleans doesn't give a good goddamn about us. No, it doesn't surprise me a bit, but it's a little like the difference between thinking your lover is cheating on you and actually catching them in the act. (Or like that difference must be; I've been lucky to escape that particular life experience.)

I wasn't going to mention this because it felt like a brag, but at Mass weekend before last, they took up a second collection for "Peter's Pence," which allegedly helps the Pope continue his charitable works around the world. As I believe I have said here, I am not a big fan of the Pope and imagine that his "charitable works" might well include a new pair of Prada loafers, so I took a dollar, wrote "THIS IS A GAY DOLLAR. GOD LOVES US TOO" on it, and put it in the collection basket. No, I don't kid myself that Benny will ever see it, but like so many little ultimately meaningless acts, it made me feel better.