Buddhapuss was scheduled to appear this evening but alas, he’s feeling a bit under the weather from the recent heat wave. Attempts to coax a new column out of him met with extremely stiff resistance.
The cat will compose no blog before it’s time. I shall try again on Monday.
In other news, the revision process continues. Still awaiting word from the propsective agent.
Wrote 8 pages today and now my eyes hurt. Check back for Buddhapuss on Friday.
Normally this blog end runs around current topics, but one news event this week was just too disturbing for me to overlook.
Mary Kay Letourneau, the 42 year old teacher was released this week from a seven year stint for child rape. Legally she is barred from any communication with her victim, now 21, who’s also the father of two of her children.
Even though this relationship has cost her a teaching job, made her a felon, damned her to sex offender database, led to a divorce and a protracted estrangement with her other children, Mary Kay is back on the prowl for Vili Fualaau. Tragically, Mr. Fualaau is ready for round 3 too, and already mounted a legal challenge to overturn the ban on his contact with Mary Kay. After all now he’s an adult.
Here’s my theory: If we all stop paying attention, they will break up. And better yet, the news will stop reporting the Mary Kay and Vili show.
I don’t want to watch the TV movie with the paperback book tie-in and Barbara Walters pre-broadcast interview. I don’t want to hear her shrill voice on Howard Stern, or look at her centerfold in Playboy. More than any other story this year, this is the one story I want to die.
Let’s not hear from either of them until again until their obituaries.
Rant over. Thanks for tuning in.
A long time ago, in a galaxy called college, I knew a writer with so much talent the stuff practically dripped off him. He churned out more innovative stories than most commercially viable authors. Some of his work was rough around the edges; to him revisions were the enemy of creativity. But even for first or second drafts, the prose was very good.
Years passed, everyone graduated and went their separate ways. Recently he popped back on the radar screen. A mutual friend clued me onto the location of his new digs; a small room that backed onto an abandoned church. The door will be open, he told me.
I found his appearance was the same, rumpled and dirty around the edges. His clothing was still Gap closeout meets Salvation Army. Reeking of cheap cigarettes, he had trouble holding a cup of coffee steady, spilling half of it on the table and chair. He hadn’t changed.
What had changed was his demeanor. The black eye, he assured me, was just a misunderstanding over a girl and some money. He looked tired and burnt out. There was a sadness about him that there wasn’t before.
I’m not certain what he’s mixed up in now, or what kind of hell he’s been through all these years. What I am sure of, is that once he had a lot of talent and these days he sleeps alone in a church.