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Late... re: nets challenged Mc

I am John McCain, I don’t know much about the nets, but I fumbled around enough to find this interesting comment on a blog (from Hawaii to boot):

I must say that I think Stanley was creepy. I found through the writings about Frank Davis that he not only was a child molester, sex-obsessed, a pornographer, drug user & heavy drinker¡ gramps Stanley brought him to Frank’s house at age 9. Stanley seemed close enough to Frank to have well known what Frank’s ‘hobby’ was.

Frank was living in Koa Cottages in The Waikiki Jungle in 1970 when Stanley brought the child to see Frank. I lived in Koa Cottages in 1969-1970. It was not a place I’d take a child. It was full of drunks, druggies, male & female hookers and low-life-losers.

In 1981, when BO was 19, his poem about ‘Pop’, his grandfather Stanley was published in an Occidental College paper:
________________

Pop

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken

In, sprinkled with ashes,

Pop switches channels, takes another

Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks

What to do with me, a green young man

Who fails to consider the

Flim and flam of the world, since

Things have been easy for me;

I stare hard at his face, a stare

That deflects off his brow;

I’m sure he’s unaware of his

Dark, watery eyes, that

Glance in different directions,

And his slow, unwelcome twitches,

Fail to pass.

I listen, nod,

Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,

Beige T-shirt, yelling,

Yelling in his ears, that hang

With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling

His joke, so I ask why

He’s so unhappy, to which he replies¡

But I don’t care anymore, cause

He took too damn long, and from

Under my seat, I pull out the

Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing,

Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face

To mine, as he grows small,

A spot in my brain, something

That may be squeezed out, like a

Watermelon seed between

Two fingers.

Pop takes another shot, neat,

Points out the same amber

Stain on his shorts that I¡¯ve got on mine, and

Makes me smell his smell, coming

From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem

He wrote before his mother died,

Stands, shouts, and asks

For a hug, as I shink, my

Arms barely reaching around

His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ¡®cause

I see my face, framed within

Pop¡¯s black-framed glasses

And know he¡¯s laughing too.
________________

What does ‘Points out the same amber Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and makes me smell his smell, coming From me’ mean?

A high-school literature teacher said to me, when I showed the poem to her, said: If one of my students wrote that in my class, BY LAW, I’d have to report it.