If You Believe There’s a Line on the Moon
My cab driver tried to convert me to Islam the other day, on the way from Oak Park to O’Hare.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that if my own mother couldn’t convert me back to Catholicism, the religion into which I was born and raised, that a non-relative had little chance of converting me to a religion that I know very little about—a conversion that I suspect, also, would piss off my Catholic family and Hindu in-laws equally.
Not that I’m against Islam. If I had to rank the religions of the world (a noncontroversial pass-time we . . .