Bemused Amusements

I think that the most difficult thing about Pope John Paul's funeral was the absence of the personal stuff. No relatives to reminiscent about family picnics or vacations. Actually, you never heard his real name mentioned at all -- almost as though he ceased to be human when he became pope.

Usually there's a trade-off on age. Kids who wrap their cars around telephone poles on prom night have hundreds of personal mourners. On the other hand, if you're lucky enough to outlive friends and family, there's nobody left to make you sound like anything more than a cardboard cut-out of a decent man. But the pope, this ancient pope, had enough mourners to fill the streets of Rome. Many came from great distances -- but I bet that few of them could even spell his surname. I know that I can't.

There is going to be one lingering image in my mind related to the election of a pope.

All of the cardinals -- generally elderly, often conservative, presumably holy men -- will be deliberating in the Sistine Chapel. Presiding over the scene will be the figures of Michelangelo's ceiling frescoes -- magnificient in the splendor of their total nudity. I wonder if the cardinals will gaze toward the heavens as they contemplate their decision.

Janet Jackson. . . eat your heart out.