Ash Wednesday

Jack says, “Remember in school when they said Rocky Horror was cult and we agreed thinking they meant cool, indie, interesting to be in to? But really they meant demonic, evil spirits, or whatever the Catholic specifics are for the other, the dark, shadows.”

“Right,” I say, “and you had the tape because your Dad copied it for you when you showed an interest in Andrew Lloyd Webber. And you’d lay in bed listening as you fell asleep, enjoying the departure from Jesus Christ Superstar which seemed a bit like homework in between Baptist Church and Catholic School, and the innuendo was lost on you at eleven, even fifteen, but really the correlation’s uncanny. We’re ants, we’re repressed, think undressing is sin even in front of doctors and we’re so pinned into our clothes any human interaction has to have meaning. We’re on a set track, a plan we can’t veer off of, and sex is so alien to us we get a Janet Weiss sort of a shock when the subject is broached. And we can pretend that Ash Wednesday’s the cut off, the second we give up every wrong thing we’ve thought, but it’s true what you put in your head stays forever, and Richard O’Brien’s the Crystal Maze guy so we don’t buy his being involved in something evil. We can’t compute that. All our favourite movies have the phrase ‘Great Scott’ in them.'”

Jack laughs. “That’s true,” he says. “And what lasts longer anyway: religion or film?” Which seems like a stupid question.

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