Sitting in a boat on the Niagara river I was brought up by evangelicals so I can understand the fervent campaign to elect a revolutionary socialist to the White House. My people believed that we alone knew the mind of God and that He loved us more than the ignorant pagans around us. So when I see the old revolutionary shake his fists and shout against injustice, I relive the righteousness of my childhood. Happy times. I haven’t felt half so superior since. It’s more satisfying to be part of a militant righteous minority than to be in the anxiety-ridden confused majority — to be a nightrider rather than a passenger in the long wagon train. The problem with righteousness is that it isolates you from those who are less righteous, which is okay if you’re self-sufficient and living in the woods but if you depend on others, you need to cut corners. When I was 20, I looked down on people who hadn’t read the right books, but then one day you need to call a plumber and your world starts to broaden. But I’m an old man and the world belongs to the young. I am only a tourist, so I guess I will go drink some toilet bowl cleanser or maybe move to Iceland. I enjoyed Reykjavik when I was there years ago with my pal Bill Holm, an Icelander. We roamed around town, eating herring, and he got good and drunk and I watched and took notes. The language is so complicated that Icelanders don’t want to hear you try to speak it — Icelandic for “I have done more for Christianity than Jesus” is Ég hef gert meira fyrir kristni en Jesús, which is a mouthful — so they speak excellent English. Read the rest of the column >>> | 
