Unbelievably riotously funny!!!
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.