I shouldn’t admit this but I’ve pleaded for God’s help twice in my life. I was scared shitless both times. I felt like a hypocrite but I figured it couldn’t hurt. I told myself I was like Jimmy Stewart when he was trying to land the Spirit of St. Louis at Le Bourget field in Paris…”Oh, God, help me.” The first time was in ’78 or thereabouts, when I was truly frightened about my ability to survive as a freelance journalist in the rough-and-tumble, suffer-no-fools environment of New York City. The second was in the summer of ’05, when I was seriously concerned that Hollywood Elsewhere’s meager revenues might not be enough to survive on. I actually went to a Catholic church on Montrose Avenue in Brooklyn (i.e., St. Mary’s) and prayed. I guess my prayers were answered because I was doing okay a year later. If I ever get in trouble again I’ll probably get all penitent and go there again. Spiritually speaking I’m a Hindu — I feel much closer to the Bhagavad Gita than the Bible.