an artist named ray navarro is dressed as jesus christ, swathed in a white shroud carrying a large wooden cross over his near-skeletal shoulder. he wears a crown of thorns over his long, thinning hair. ray will be dead in less than a year. keith herring is there, too, in a knitted cap with a long hand-knitted scarf wrapped around his slender neck. he has two months left. inside the cathedral, o'connor's mass is interrupted again and again by act up protesters, they stand up and yell out their statements. my friend michael climbs on a pew and shouts, to o'connor be, aye killing us! -- you're killing us. another friend offers up a prayer in protest. two boyfriends in black lengther motorcycle jackets handcuff themselves to one pew. right after o'connor begins his homily, 30 protesters stage a die-in, going lump in the center aisle. the cops, two long lines of blue on're side of the cathedral, have their moment binding wrists with plastic handcuffs and carrying the protesters away on stretchers as if they're taking them to a hospital rather than to paddy wagons. with his homily in tatters, d