The Metaphysical Ninja
Sally leaves me alone for a night and I find myself surrounded by a gaggle of chosen people at an irish bar on the UWS. Sure there are jews in Berkeley, but they’re not really Jews. As in they don’t give me gas.
Over the past few years I’ve mellowed considerably on the forensic tip when it came to Jews. Most likely because of the absence of the aforementioned agita. So when I encounter a master obfusactor nowadays I generally tune out pleasantly. Last night, however, I was, or at least felt, on.
Maybe I felt backed into a corner. Maybe hanging out with Michal had me in the mood for a fight. Who knows. The point is that once they questioned my morality for dating a gentile I held no bars and barred no holds.
I’m not going to recount it all because it’s fairly standard stuff, it’s not rocket science, and these guys where the strong men of the faith, not the philosophers. Suffice it to say that once their standard heritage arguments were decimated spittle was spit and keepahs were flying, and their women were laughing at them. So pumped was I that I made Jomo take me to Cafeteria at 2 AM for a celebratory crab cake.