The Catholic Church isn’t wrong about everything, just about most all the big/important things. But there is a benefit to the Confessional booth, I will admit. The unburdening of the soul for our human lapses and transgressions is worthwhile, if only for the self-examination. Sadly, I’ve experienced this but once in my life, during the lead-up to my, ah-hem, Confirmation. And I feel majorly gipped, since at the time it was the fashion to do these interviews face-to-face. I made up some bullshit about cussing too much and telling a lie or two. I left out the porn mags I had swiped from one of my uncles. Must’ve slipped my mind. The priest seemed distracted anyway by the gigantic bulge in my pants from the tube socks I stuffed in there just to fuck with him (I must confess to making this part up but sorely wish it were true!). There’s a cinematic quality to the “elaborate wooden chamber of naughty secrets” (the original name from the Medieval era), as we have seen most recently in “The Banshees of Inisherin.” And that’s the kind of thing I would go in for — a little informal priestly jaw-jaw with a few F-bombs and some witty repartee. To be known and to be heard. That’s all one can really ask from a church visit (or life, generally), other than maybe a nearby McDonald’s. We used to shoot like a laser from the Communion alter at Our Lady of Lourdes to the food counter at McD’s for an Egg McMuffin with hash browns (which, in a fine parallel, I no longer eat but fondly recall). All the better if it was the Spanish mass because Father Quinones did a reading like it was all one word, no caesuras or even audible breaths. Pure poetry to my ears and to my watch — though that might have forced a lunch order if it ended after 11AM, come to think of it.
But let’s get back to confessions. Here’s mine: I used to enjoy this song back when it came out. It’s bland and pure sap, no doubt, but I’d argue fairly well executed for the period. And to a 13 year old kid, Debby Boone had that wholesome sort of sexuality (like Dorothy Hamill), which was a useful ballast against my uncle’s pilfered Playboy‘s. In the end, it’s all about the balance. I even saw the film “You Light Up My Life” (1977) in the theater. It was absolutely terrible and, to my dismay, did not feature the telegenic Ms. Boone but rather Didi Conn, the mousy girl from “Grease (1978).” What a bummer! And much as I’d like to disavow the song, it is, alas, to be found in my bought-and-paid-for iTunes collection. I’d prefer to claim it’s there for some comic-nostalgic party-mix moment as a surprise element, but I’m not so sure. I might just be stuck with the notion that the song is permanently etched into my DNA and cannot be expunged (or shunted off to some other parish in Pennsylvania). Though it sure sounds nice to have a dark, quiet place to go to and hear someone tell me through a semi-private screen, in a melodic Irish brogue, that it’s all gonna be okay… that all is forgiven… that the song is still good… and that anyone who says otherwise can just go fuck off!!
Great Exudations 