This is an apology to all those who have to be in section with me.

You've seen me stare off into space, quiver when section leaders ask me about readings I don't even pretend to do and make those lame jokes to cover it all up. Thanks for all the laughs, guys.

I blame it all on "Davey and Goliath."

Let me explain. My parents were hardly religious--nominal Methodists. It doesn't get much less fervent than that. We prayed twice a year, around the Thanksgiving and Christmas turkeys. They'd make me pray, because I was little and remembered stuff from Sunday School, then we'd chow `til the meal was done. And that was it for eleven months. My parents loved God, but the Christmas tree was about as public as they got.

Then that kids' show came along and sent me reeling. If you, O section comrades, were up early enough to catch the show--a wood puppet family with a son, Davey, and his faithful canine companion, Goliath--you'd understand the simple brilliance of it. The adventures! The familial love! The clear morality! The churches! The utter pureness of Davey's heart!

I had experienced an epiphany. I would act as nobly, as selflessly as my newfound idol. It was simple.

For a while, at least. Then, as the days passed, I found myself falling further from Davey's immaculate ways. Temptation blackened my heart. Comparing myself to this perfect wood child, I began to see my flaws.

When Davey would spend his evenings falling asleep by the fire with his family, I'd sneak a look at reruns of Three's Company before bed. And could he pray! His prayers were the very things God wanted to hear. I was never that precocious or cute. Damn him.

Davey was on at 7 a.m., and when I started to sleep in on Sundays, I felt guilty for missing him.

Clearly, I had to do more.

My First Fervor turned into a campaign against the power of Satan.

First, just like everyone else (believe it or not) in my eighth grade class, I read the book of Revelations aloud in bed. I realized with glee that St. John had predicted Watergate, the Beatles and Charles Manson.

Then, whenever a swear word popped into my head, I would repeat silently "I love you" until the words of Satan evaporated away.

When writing "Assignment" at the top of my fourth-grade papers, I'd be sure to write A-S-I then slip in another S so I wouldn't write "ass."

And then there was that seminar in eighth grade about Satan in rock music. I was in heaven. Not only were Motley Crue and Alistair "The Satanic Bible" Crowley off limits, but so were Hall and Oates, Abba and the Beach Boys.