I Hardly Know Myself

On April 8th my wife and I went to lunch at the St. Regis.  It is my favorite restaurant.  It is elegant.  It is swell.  A harpist serenades the not-so-young, well-coiffed people in the room.  

My wife said to me in her best Jackie Kennedy voice, "It's Easter Sunday.  There's a service at 6:00.  I want you to take me."

"Sure.  Sure," I said.  But the idea didn't appeal to me.  I don't like crowds.  I don't like being lectured at. 

Yet someone has to support the church if just to spite the atheists and secularists.  I am a natural born agnostic.  But the atheists' activism has made me want to support religion.  I am a Jew but I feel warmth towards Christianity. It seems to be the last bastion against Islamism.  So I decided I would make an attempt to go to church with my wife even though I was allergic to crowds.

When atheists and Democrats boo Tim Tebow I want to run out into the field and kneel with him.  His faith is beautiful.  That I don't share his religion doesn't mean that I should demean it. His religion is clean and sincere like a touchdown pass.  

President Obama should apologize to Cardinal Dolan for bullying him about condoms.  Since when did Obama become pope and president, God and monarch? He waves his naïve, little Marxist ideology around like a religious flag.  He has the arrogant superiority of a misguided manic-depressive.  He doesn't know who he is because he thinks that he is everyone and everything. 

At 6:00 I am at home watching a show about Mike Wallace, an overrated newscaster who threw the Vietnam War to the dogs after the Tet Offensive when he maliciously and mistakenly said that we had lost the battle.  We had won.  But popular prejudice drove our administration to withdraw from Vietnam and leave millions of Cambodians and Vietnamese to be slaughtered.

I hear the bells ringing from the church calling us to the service.  I don't wake my wife who is asleep in the other room.

When she wakes up at seven-thirty she asks me, "Why didn't you wake me for services?"

"I didn't know," I lied.

"Didn't you hear the bells?"

"No," I said. 

I had had a beautiful day.  I wish I could help the religious out by supporting them.  But I'm just not good in confined spaces like church.  I am large like Walt Whitman.  I contain multitudes.  I am more than I am.  I hardly know myself.

I could be the President.  After all, I am bipolar.

On April 8th my wife and I went to lunch at the St. Regis.  It is my favorite restaurant.  It is elegant.  It is swell.  A harpist serenades the not-so-young, well-coiffed people in the room.  

My wife said to me in her best Jackie Kennedy voice, "It's Easter Sunday.  There's a service at 6:00.  I want you to take me."

"Sure.  Sure," I said.  But the idea didn't appeal to me.  I don't like crowds.  I don't like being lectured at. 

Yet someone has to support the church if just to spite the atheists and secularists.  I am a natural born agnostic.  But the atheists' activism has made me want to support religion.  I am a Jew but I feel warmth towards Christianity. It seems to be the last bastion against Islamism.  So I decided I would make an attempt to go to church with my wife even though I was allergic to crowds.

When atheists and Democrats boo Tim Tebow I want to run out into the field and kneel with him.  His faith is beautiful.  That I don't share his religion doesn't mean that I should demean it. His religion is clean and sincere like a touchdown pass.  

President Obama should apologize to Cardinal Dolan for bullying him about condoms.  Since when did Obama become pope and president, God and monarch? He waves his naïve, little Marxist ideology around like a religious flag.  He has the arrogant superiority of a misguided manic-depressive.  He doesn't know who he is because he thinks that he is everyone and everything. 

At 6:00 I am at home watching a show about Mike Wallace, an overrated newscaster who threw the Vietnam War to the dogs after the Tet Offensive when he maliciously and mistakenly said that we had lost the battle.  We had won.  But popular prejudice drove our administration to withdraw from Vietnam and leave millions of Cambodians and Vietnamese to be slaughtered.

I hear the bells ringing from the church calling us to the service.  I don't wake my wife who is asleep in the other room.

When she wakes up at seven-thirty she asks me, "Why didn't you wake me for services?"

"I didn't know," I lied.

"Didn't you hear the bells?"

"No," I said. 

I had had a beautiful day.  I wish I could help the religious out by supporting them.  But I'm just not good in confined spaces like church.  I am large like Walt Whitman.  I contain multitudes.  I am more than I am.  I hardly know myself.

I could be the President.  After all, I am bipolar.

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