Watching the Pope quiver and shuffle his way through the Holy Land recently, I was reminded?as I always am during one of these hoopla-saturated ministerings to the worldwide flock by St. Peter's heir?of my Catholic lineage. I fell from grace a while back, and for the most part I veil whatever allegiance I still maintain to organized faith behind a general skepticism, but the truth is that I was raised not just Catholic, but hardass Catholic. Until I was about 10, I attended (was compelled to attend, actually) Mass six days a week. Six! That, folks, is extreme. It was a consequence of being educated in the Catholic schools: I and my blue-uniformed fellows and plaid-skirted sisters would be trundled off the bus and straight into church, there to have our metaphysical adolescent needs tended for a ritual hour before ever cracking a book or being tyrannized by a nun. (And how's this? If during the day a priest entered our classroom, we were all required, on threat of corporal punishment, to stand in unison and issue a greeting. Creepy? Yeah, sort of creepy.)