Confession: I like Jerry Lewis

Here's a confession.
I like Jerry Lewis.
I know that's not cool or hip to admit. I can live with that. Maybe I'm more French than I thought my small percentage of French-Canadian blood made me. I'll have to live with that, too.
Sure, he's brash. And loud. And sophomoric. Hell, he may even be less than sophomoric. Freshmanic?
But I don't care. I grew up watching the MD telethon every Labor Day weekend. The whole family watched.
And I don't that some people say he exploited those sick kids, using them to pull at America's heartstrings to get more money. Pull my heartstrings. I want to feel that -- I want to feel something -- anything. Too many of us have steeled ourselves against feeling pity, sorrow, sympathy. We don't want to be moved to tears and then moved to give.
Such is our loss.
Jerry Lewis is not the young clown any longer. He's not the middle-aged lounge act, with untied bow tie, tux, cigarette in one hand and drink in the other. He's not the old entertainer with bifocals and hair dye who can still hoof it if he has to.
He is sick. You could see it at the Oscars when he accepted his humanitarian award for his work with MD. He fought to walk to the podium. He fought to give his short, insanity-free acceptance speech. A heartfelt thanks and then he was gone.
Why did it take them so long to give him this award? He's been doing these telethons for at least 4 decades, if not longer. Because he wasn't the epitome of Hollywood cool? Probably. Too many sneered down their "I make art" noses at him because he made entertainment.
I hope, at least just once more, I will get to watch him act the fool on a Labor Day weekend.