Two Things
One
Brasilia. Beatrice Dalle. The Belle Stars. Holy Smoke. What do these things all have in common? Ample resources and seriously squandered opportunities.
Poor Kate Winslet. I’d have only needed to hear two words before I ran screaming from Ms. Campion’s office: “Harvey Keitel.”
Two
This evening Jonno helped remind me of something that I’d nearly erased from memory: back in high school, there was a kid one grade ahead with exactly the same name as me.
Now, ordinarily that wouldn’t have been so bad, except this particular Richard (everyone called him Richie) was slightly insane and extremely homosexual and claimed he had Rod Stewart’s baby in a shoebox buried in his backyard. In case you’ve forgotten, our story is set in Mississippi. Ergo, Richie was not the most popular kid in town. (Of course, I doubt his plight would have been much different had we grown up in San Francisco.)
So every year on the first day of classes, I’d have at least one teacher who’d never encountered either of us. Since his reputation preceeded him, the profs would ask me hesitantly, “Are you Richie?” And with all the vehemence of a teenage faggot trying to hide his love of uncut cock, I’d state with a mildly haughty toss of the head, “No, I’m Richard, actually.” And I believed it; I believed in our mutual exclusivity. So far as I was concerned, Richie and I had nothing in common….
I like to think I’m older and wiser now. At the very least, I’m older. When I go home and see Richie at the Hattiesburg gay bar (as I sometimes do), I should be able to walk over to him and laugh and buy him a drink, but I don’t. And I probably won’t. My inner hippie tells me I need to apologize to him, but really, how conceited is that? Richie probably doesn’t even remember who I am, and he seems to be getting along just fine without hearing the words “I’m sorry” fall from my lips. Why bother?
Sometimes I hate the 60s and the touchy-feely crap that followed in their wake. Hackneyed sentimentality. I mean, I’m no Kathy Acker, either–just cynical.
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