This time, though, as I said, I had Jerry with me. He'd come on the spur of the moment; I'd been over at his house running off Telos 2 and trying to soothe my jangling nerves by talking to him, and somehow he'd wound up telling me about his cousin's Bar Mitzvah, with the band and the hired hall and the swans made out of chopped liver and everything. I found this oddly comforting, and so persuaded him to come along. We found ourselves waiting in the building foyer for a good twenty minutes in the company of some six or eight teenage Mormon male louts. Jerry wandered around looking at all the thick carpeting and new paint (good but durable, the way Mormon churches always are; temples are furnished in Serious Luxury), in through the door of the chapel where a dozen or so members of the ladies' auxiliary were rehearsing an ensemble version of "O My Father," and over to where a large portrait of the current prophet hung on the wall (Prez Kimball, looking very much like a pink and earless Yoda), and said "It's weird! It's all so Anglo!"--in his nice Cleveland/New York Eastern Urban Degenerate accent. Call it perspective. It was much easier to stand waiting to be called into the court session in the company of Jerry, a representative representative of the normal Delanyesque world where everyone publishes small mimeographed magazines and writes for The Rocket.