Worship with Rocky

In time of suffering and confusion, many people turn to religion. Doctrine and prayer seem to soothe people out of despair and hysteria. Such is not the case with someone me. I'm like a waiter who just can't eat from the restaurant in which he works. I like to think of myself as a professional religionist (personally as well as academically) who observes with Steinbeck's "detachment of God." Ritual and meditation, however, have an appeal in which I must, at the very least, dabble.

In the time that I have spent on the jigsaw that is my life, I have forgotten about the Halloween happiness that I should have. It's finally cold in New York. This weekend, we're all about to gain the hour that was stolen in the spring. So, in a respite from reality, my friends and I are planning to hallow the ween this weekend with the truest of traditions: The Rocky Horror Picture Show in the West Village.

The memories are flooding back. The days when Rocky Horror was all I was allowed to do on a Saturday night have been easily forgotten. I find it ironic that now, with all the liberty a tennager could want, I spend most nights in, weekend or not. It really is like ritual, like religion. It's easy to see the Rocky-watching experience as a liturgy all its own. Think about it: the dressing up, the responsive reading/dialogue, the singing, the versicle standing and sitting. It's like Mass or synagogue or misplacing the remote.

I can't wait. I too have a well established ritual that I perform around this time every year. You know the hour that we get back at the end of daylight savings this Sunday is one I like to savor. For people who love to dance and drink publicly, this hour is everything. In Texas, I used to go out every year on this particular Saturday night. By two in the morning (last call in Austin), I would be expecting the fun to wind down. But, by the grace of God and the needs of farmers and day laborers, it would be one o'clock again, lengthening the night of the week that usually ends too soon.

In New York, everything closes at four. Will I be able to live up to the task of partying until the almost dawn? Or, will the tri-state chill force me inside before I can savor the flavor of the liberated hour? Let's be honest: it's been a long month, and I'm up to the challenge. Besides, it's $3 wells all night at the East Village's Boiler Room. A tradition like this is my kind of religion.