March 13, 2011 - Breakfast

You hear about great louts--I'm thinking of Brendan Behan or Oliver Reed, the latter-day Irish and British messes of the 50s and 60s. When in New York City they landed at the Chelsea. You hear about them going on benders that traverse whole continents. It starts at some tavern; opens with a fistfight with Norman Mailer; then, six days later, they're found hundreds of miles away rolling a barrel of wine down a hill, naked below the waist, lit by police spotlight. The police are not the indulgent big-city kind but the purse-mouthed small-town type; they might as well be the father of the playwright or poet or artist. So he takes yet another slug. But does not connect; instead he totters and falls. Thus the bender comes to an end. They have to find their way home--wallet long gone with their pants. It's a good story for everyone else but it ends 20 years later, with someone blearily berating a talk-show host from a younger generation. I'm just saying, I can see how that could happen.

I'm just saying, I can see how that could happen.