I’ve been wanting to read James Hanley to you for a couple of months now, ever since he was reintroduced to me a few months ago while I was yearning for a bathematic submergence in a foreign hotel. So much of it was grim and wintery and lonesome, and while this was all right smack up my own personal bowling alley, I wasn’t about to take you down that lane with me. I’m thoughtful that way.
But today, sunshiny and springy and cheerful, I had a little encounter with a little critter (more about which you’ll hear if you don’t automatically fast-forward through my spoken moment preceding the story), and it struck me that now’s the time to read you something on the sad side.
(N.B.: admittedly, a story about the self-entitlement among those in positions of religious authority is somewhat topical, eh? Which may be at least partially why this particular story has been noodling on the chorus of the old bean lately. But it’s more than that, as these things often are, and know that my reading of this story should by no means be perceived as “my religion can beat up your religion.” Because you probably don’t want my opinion on such things– and that’s one area in which I’ll happily oblige. And, damn, that can get me into trouble, too, so maybe let’s just hit the button that sends the story from me to you already.).