Until recently, I thought channeling was what my five-year-old did to the TV on Saturday mornings looking for the Smurfs. But I was wrong. Really wrong. As wrong as the guy who listened to the Beatles’ “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds” and heard “the girl with colitis goes by.”
“Look, I don’t talk to you people. I never got anything positive from a newspaper and if you want to know more, go talk to Shirley and all the rest of them who like publicity. I don’t need it,” she said.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
That handy piece of information delivered, the Reverend announced she wanted to start. “OK, are we ready for Dr. D?” It was about five after eight, and the well-dressed, mostly white-bread gathering mumbled its affirmation. We were told to uncross our legs, relax, and get ready to sing a couple songs. If anyone wanted to leave, Dr. Duran’s permission needed to be obtained first. One of my cohorts groaned audibly when someone killed the lights and began a feeble rendition of “Amazing Grace.” We were barely finished with the second song (“Zip-a-dee-doo-dah”) when Dr. Duran interrupted with a “good evening,” speaking in a voice somewhere between Vincent Price and Mercedes McCambridge.
“I do not believe in anything.”
I got an elbow and a snicker from my companions on that one.
Reverend Trina went on talking to no one in particular. “You know, I’ve seen people cry on the other side when babies are born.”
