Apr 8, 2007

SEATTLE, Washington – The Greece, A Love Story editor compared me to Henry Miller, thanks to my essay At the Seashore with Medea. My ego is roughly the size of Delaware.

No, Utah.

Only the kitty grit is keeping me humble now.

That and a certain line by Miller, literary titan and author of The Colossus of Maroussi. You see, when our rebel rocked up in Iraklion, he succumbed to a common travel complaint. And he wrote: "I got the jitterbugs so bad that I made c@ca* in my pants."

No, Henry. Bad, BAD!

The illness doesn't squeam me out. Nor the oversharing. My problem is pure vocabulary. Anyone pushing 50 should not coyly "make c@ca".

Just own it, man. Take the charcoal, eat the rice and own the ailment – in all the raw and ribald language that earned you a landmark obscenity trial.

* My squirrely typeface is not merely to elude Google Ad censure. I'm also avoiding link-farmers with poor comprehension skills, the sort who once boomed net traffic to my article Lair of the Bear, which mentioned bear sc@t. But not in the romantic sense their kinky readers craved...

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