Cut To The Chaste

"Cut To The Chaste."

That's my suggestion to San Francisco Archbishop William Levada for the title of his memoirs as he is about to assume his new duties in Rome -- to head the powerful enforcement arm of The Church's theology, the Vatican Congregation to the Doctrine of Faith. His job will be to look of for cases of "heretical perversity." And to collect the payoffs from the local shopkeepers. "Heretical perversity."

The Church has such a terrific sense of the lingo. It metes out its reproach in a grand way -- the opprobrium that drips with contempt is almost a pleasure to endure because it is phrased so well. But historically, the consequences of "heretical perversity" went far beyond mere florid verbal admonishment. It was a whole different scene back in the 1500s when The Church let loose its doctrinal dogs.

"Is this the same outfit that used to burn the witches?" asked Levada excitedly at his Vatican interview with the mysterious Cardinal Anselm Penetratus.

"Well, they hanged more witches than actually burned," murmured the Cardinal.

"That's cool," Levada gushed. "Do you think we could bring back the wasps on the flesh thing, you know, in a quiet sort of way?"

"A Muttering Instinct,"I've used that phrase as a column headline before. I thought a good title for this alleged longer work I am allegedly working on. Now, I find myself in this fair Marina District, a most decorative cultural casket.

Minding matters grave, my friend, Ian Whitcomb, once a pop star in "the British Invasion," told me story about Boris Karloff, who, as a traveling thespian, missed the last train out of Carlisle or Manchester or some northern city like that.

Remember this story? He knocks on the door of a dreary-looking house that could be a bed & breakfast.

A dry voice, one that seems not to have spoken in a very long time, croaks, "Yes?"

"I find myself ensconced in your fair city this evening," Boris explains cheerfully. "Do you have rooms for the night?"

"Yes," growls the clipped, dry voice.

"Ah, and do you have special terms for actors?" asks Boris.

"Yes," snaps the dry voice behind the door. "And here's one: Fuck off!"