Watering Hole

"Let me apologize for this barbarian."-- Arthur O'Connell

Pessimism,gushing forth in spades: The only update I had on Michael Washington after he ceased being the manager of Diamond Park, was an obituary notice for the death of his father, Reverend Paul Washington, who gave the commencement speech to my indifferent departure from Temple. I would have slept with his son without question, and was so hot for the man that a woofie in my drink would have only knocked my body temperature back to normal. Would it have been good sex? Would I have gotten pregnant? Converted to black? My narrative of my lava emotes destroying my potential prevented that, and the last time I saw him he was wasted, still the most beautiful black man I ever laid eyes on, but wasted.

Not sleeping with him did not prevent the inner city from scarring me toward my gradual right wing compass correction, but it did stop me from turning ho-- had he been Muslim instead of some obscure Adventist denomination, perhaps I would have successfully drugged my brain lesions and reverted back to a shallow Catholic suburban mode, and all this raw fury would have followed my mother's pattern of breakdowns. Unlike Kayla, I'd never go near a Muslim. Black, white, Arabic, nope. 

I had dinner with one, in a strange experience, an Iranian who invited Tom Reid (I think) after I transferred. Tom stayed with me for awhile, and my mother told me to snatch him while the going was good, but I never really attempted to breach our aesthetic congeniality. Out of all the players in my best university past, I miss Tom the most. Why? He could keep up with me intellectually, and you cannot imagine my loneliness, starvation, for a man with Tom's discernment; it would not hurt to see him again; it might be disorienting, awkward, and we'd be changed, but he was a good fellow, and I'd be delighted to have coffee with him. What the Iranian wanted from him I am not sure; it was the most jittery dinner I ever had with a foreigner. Whether he was a repressed homosexual and wanted me out of the way is moot, but certainly the whole thing was weird.

Kayla apparently wanted to be a chameleon, and it evidently killed her, so her third world adventurism gets no pity from me. Syria may need serious intervention, but Peace Corp progressive mentality is irrational when it comes to the Middle East. That level of altruism may actually hint at mental illness, and if I wanted to know why she is dead, my answer lies in the fact she was trying to hard to erase her national identity. Isis may be what it is, and her attachment to the pasteurized Omar may have been what it was, but she was a fool, more than that

Marilyn Monroe actually looks repulsive in Bus Stop, beneath the surface it is rather cynical about sexual relations in America  Our fifties answer to domestic violence. She really looks like a battered drug addict through most of the film; it has the panoramic sweep common to the color technology of the time, but the textures that come out on screen are simply ghastly. Why was this a popular play? Taming of the shrew for apes? Watered down as it is, the much upgraded Urban Cowboy seems to get some of its cues from the hucksterism of this not to be believed gumball story.