It is 1987, and my best friend, Lori, is visiting. Her visit happens to coincide with a visit from Pope John Paul II.
It is mere months after my father died, and maybe that's why I remember it with seeming clarity this many years later. It also happens to be mere weeks before I'll be visiting her, with Springsteen's "Tunnel of Love" newly released. I remember her uncle driving us somewhere-or-another and one of the songs coming on. #Bruuuuuuuuuce.
That visit to her on the East Coast marks my first time visiting my Dad's final resting place at Arlington.
Lots of memories can be dredged up by a visit by Pope Francis.
But back to September 1987, when she is visiting me. This, of course, is far before kids. It is, also, far before meeting future husbands.
She is here. I live...I don't know...by then I was probably in that studio on Sacramento at Gough. I paid a pittance for it then. It's probably $4,000 or more per month now. Out of the reach of many, surely, which I'm guessing Pope JPII bemoaned, and which I sure as hell know Pope Frank would bemoan it now.
Damn, I keep sidelining this post.
Okay. Lori is in that time. I am in that time. And, beautiful Jewish girl that she is, she is all for heading down to Geary Blvd. to see JPII ride by in his pimped-up Popemobile and feel the adoration of thousands of folks.
I am moved to tears. I really am. When I glimpse him. And Lori is, too. Because she might not believe in what he offers, but she knows a real good dude when she sees him.
At the time, I believe. Oh, how I believed.
But even now, not believing one iota of any of it, I would be moved to tears were I to see the 2.0 version of a great pope pass by on the street.
If ever there was a reason to have "the land of the label free" tag for a post, this would be it.