I met a grifter on Sepulveda this afternoon, handing out prayer cards. She was blonde and pretty and dressed all in white and had two young daughters with her, dressed in gold lame stretch pants and white halter tops. The card offered conversations with God, through her, by which I could obtain success in life and win. Superimposed over the bleeding heart of Jesus was a photo of a fat guy in an afro sitting on some kind of throne beckoning with his fingers. From the picture, he appeared to be the father of the twin girls. The card had a long list of things they could summon forth for me: health, divine guidance and miracles.
On the other side was a picture of her which looked as though it were lifted from a back page advertisement for outcall massage. Call me anytime! God bless you!
After dinner, I went to the gym. On the way home, I stopped to take a picture of the creche in front of St. Catherine of Siena church. As a teenager Catherine cut her hair to ward off potential suitors her mother arranged for her to marry. They intruded upon her pre-existing mystical marriage to Jesus. “Build a cell inside your mind, from which you can never flee,” she advised. She is known as the patron saint of sexual temptation. Also, those who are mocked for their piety.
As I was laying on the sidewalk finding the best angle, a young couple stopped to talk to me. His name was Danny. Her name was Mary. She cradled a sleeping chihuahua-yorkie puppy. They got him for Valentine’s.
Danny said he wrote wrestling scenarios for the WWE. I couldn’t help but think of Barton Fink. He had a Coen Brothers-ish sense of humor. He wore a crucifix. I asked him if he was Catholic. He said he believed in a higher power. A blind watchmaker.
I suggested the first question is: why something, instead of nothing?
It was Friday the 13th. In another hour it would be Valentine’s Day.
They were a nice couple.