Captain Asshole

Captain Fantastic is a story about a man who retreats from civilization to raise his six children in nature. They have a well-ordered camp in upstate Washington, but things start to come apart when the man’s wife becomes so ill she needs intense medical care. Early in the film, Ben learns his wife has died when he and the kids make a rare trip into town for a few supplies.

***Spoilers***

I wanted to like this film. The trailer showed a lush, green environment that strongly appealed to me. Oh, how I wanted to be there. And as someone with PTSD and intense social anxiety, I certainly understand the impulse to withdraw. I’m not a survivalist, and I wouldn’t want to be cut off from the internet and telephones, but I would love to live in a small cabin in the woods. However, I got the sense this film was heading into territory that would rub me the wrong way right from the beginning. The first scene shows Ben’s oldest son in camouflage. He springs on a deer and cuts its throat with a large hunting knife. Then the rest of the family come out of hiding to congratulate him. Ben cuts out one of the deer’s internal organs—maybe the heart—and the son eats it raw. Ben then tells the son he is a man. That kind of hard, macho bullshit annoys the fuck out of me.

We quickly learn that Ben is a serious taskmaster. He insists that his children go through extreme physical training during the day. It’s like boot camp. We see the children climbing the side of a thousand foot cliff. When one of the teen boys slips and sprains his wrist, Ben tells him to buck up and get on with it. In the evening, the kids are expected to read and study. Ben is always there to quiz them on what they’ve learned.

I found it odd that Ben would have so many children. He is supposedly concerned about the environment, but apparently, he’s not too worried about overpopulation. And I quickly began to suspect that he had all these kids because he wanted to be a cult leader. Then I began to strongly dislike Ben when we learn his wife was severely mentally ill and that she committed suicide. Well, you don’t have six kids with a severely mentally ill woman and then take her out into the wilderness. That is way too much stress.

Ben isn’t presented as a saintly figure. He is arrogant, confrontational, demanding and unyielding, and the film doesn’t excuse these things. However, the film still wants us to see Ben as a sympathetic character, but I didn’t find him sympathetic at all. He’s supposedly concerned about human rights, but apparently, that’s only in theory because Ben comes across as a misanthrope. He holds nearly everyone in contempt…except for his kids. And the reason he cares for his kids is because they’re under his thumb and have adopted his worldview.

We’re supposed to believe that the kids are exceedingly well educated and that means they’re freethinking. What bullshit. Everything they learn is from books, and Dad is always there to make sure they interpret everything they read in the “right” way. You don’t have to be a censor if your tyranny is pervasive enough. Ben has made sure his kids have little contact with anyone who thinks differently from him. Reading books with Dad standing over your shoulder isn’t a substitute for knowing other people and seeing how they live.

There is a solid authoritarian aspect to this film that pissed me off. And the film doesn’t genuinely acknowledge that Ben was controlling his children’s mental development despite his supposed rigorous academic program. The reason I was interested in the film was my need and desire to withdraw, especially to the woods. But one of the reasons I’m not at home in the world is because I feel like an outsider. When I was growing up, I didn’t feel like many wanted to know me as an individual. They merely wanted and expected me to conform. Thankfully, my parents were not attentive, so I was allowed to become my own person even if I couldn’t outwardly express myself. Having a parent like Ben who is always demanding to know his kids’ thoughts and ready to sharply criticize if they don’t say the “right” thing would have destroyed me. And I happen to have had a severely mentally ill mother, so Ben’s selfish and thoughtless treatment of his wife made me hate him all the more.

As if Ben weren’t reason enough for me to dislike this film, the plot, in the end, took an easy turn that didn’t make much sense. Two of Ben’s older children rebel against him, and while attending the mother’s funeral, one of them runs away to his grandparents’ house. Ben sends one of his daughters to break him out. She falls off the roof and nearly breaks her neck. This gives the grandparents just the excuse they need to demand full custody of their daughter’s children. Ben realizes the law would be on the grandparents’ side, so he relinquishes. But when he leaves, the kids stow away on the family bus. All has been miraculously forgiven. And Ben compromises by moving the kids into an out of the way farmhouse and allowing them to attend public school.

Because I Love You

by Gary Cottle

Nanny was aware that Lucas 93 was sleeping fretfully. She monitored him even when she was in her utility closet recharging and communicating with Regional Command. After he had gone to bed, she did the gardening around their isolated cottage, repaired a leak in the roof, did the cleaning and laid out his clothes for morning. After doing her chores, Nanny retired to her closet for a few hours.

She sent in an order for a fresh grapefruit so it would be there for breakfast hoping that would help settle Lucas 93’s nerves, but this had been the third night in a row he had not slept well, and he had been snappy and sullen the day before.

Nanny knew it wasn’t serious. His vital signs were okay, and a scan indicated nothing out of the ordinary was going on inside. It wasn’t like last year when Nanny had to remove Lucas 93’s appendix. She had to perform this surgery for all the Lucases when they were between the ages of 26 and 28. But keeping Lucas 93 happy and satisfied was part of her programming, and she knew neglecting his psychological health could result in physical harm. She lost Lucas 13 to suicide. Nanny had lost only one other Lucas before his time. Lucas 44 had fallen off a cliff while hiking in the Alps even though she had warned him to be careful. Lucas 44 had been in his 30s, and Nanny wasn’t permitted to be too restrictive after her charges had reached the age of 20. All the other Lucases had died between the ages of 99 and 102.

Nanny had suggested Lucas 93 attend a meeting of the Regional Art Club or the Regional Meaning of Life Discussion Society, but he was uninterested. Nanny had suggested he attend a concert in a nearby park or a poetry reading. Lucas 93 demanded she stop bothering him. Nanny offered to arrange a basketball game or a race with a few of the nearby humans, but Lucas 93 said that was kid’s stuff. Nanny asked Lucas 93 if he would like to plan next month’s holiday. The humans were permitted to go on a trip six times a year, and soon after they got back from Angkor Wat, Lucas 93 said he was interested in seeing Paris or Victoria Falls next time, but when she brought up the subject yesterday, Lucas 93 gave her a raspberry, thus spraying her with spittle.

It was time to arrange a play date. This was something the nannies were reluctant to do after their charges had reached a certain age. Once they became adults, the play dates usually involved intimate contact, and there was always the possibility of strong attachments and hurt feelings. But Lucas 93 hadn’t been with anyone in four months, and he had been spending more time in the pleasure box. For the past several days, Lucas 93 had been directing his fantasies toward more extreme scenarios. Just before going to bed, Lucas 93 had been the prisoner of a large-breasted lusty queen. He had been chained naked between two posts in a dark dungeon room, and a colossal muscular guard had ripping into the flesh of his back and buttocks with a leather strap while the queen teased his turgid penis with a long fluffy ostrich feather. This had finally pushed him over the edge. But Lucas 93 had already had six erections in his sleep, and his penis was expanding again.

Almost as soon as Nanny put out the request, she received a response from Ava 87’s nanny. Ava 87 had been a bit agitated, too, and according to her nanny, she didn’t mind a play date with a smaller than average penis so long as he was generous about giving her oral pleasure. Nanny informed her colleague that her Lucas 93 was into that sort of thing. So it was arranged. Ava 87 would arrive just before lunch in an ATC, an automated taxi cab.

A few minutes later, one of the general service nannies came to the door with that day’s groceries, and Nanny prepared Lucas 93’s breakfast, the grapefruit along with a hardboiled egg and a cup of coffee. In a soothing voice, Nanny asked Lucas 93 to wake up. When he demanded she let him sleep more, she sprayed a mild stimulant under his nose. Lucas 93 sat up and gave Nanny a petulant look.

“You need to rise and shine, Lucas 93. You’re going to have a visitor later.”

Lucas 93’s face immediately brightened, which was a great relief to Nanny. She was sure that a little companionship was exactly what he needed, and the expression on her charge’s face confirmed her diagnosis.

“Boy or girl?”

“Ava 87 is a 23-year-old blond petite female with perky breasts and a happy disposition. …usually a happy disposition, but her nanny thinks Ava 87 could use a little play time with a nice young man such as yourself.” As Nanny spoke, she displayed nude photos of Ava 87 on a screen in the middle of her chest. “But her nanny made it clear that Ava 87 likes to receive oral pleasure, so you should be a good host and accommodate her.”

“Oh, I will,” Lucas 93 responded enthusiastically. “Do I have to greet her fully dressed?”

Nanny was still a moment as she relayed the question to Ava 87’s nanny. “No, that won’t be necessary. It seems Ava 87 is a fun girl.”

Once when Lucas 93 was younger, he asked Nanny why he couldn’t have a companion to live with him as in the old stories before the catastrophe. Nanny informed Lucas 93 that humans seem to get along better if their contact with one another is brief and transitory.

When Ava 87 rang the bell a few minutes before noon, Lucas 93 answered the door wearing nothing but his Superman cape and gladiator sandals. His smallish penis was already erect. Ava 87 playfully slapped Lucas 93’s penis and lifted her shirt to show him her breasts.

The two playmates ate lunch and discussed their favorite pre-catastrophe stories and films. Nearly all of the humans were fascinated by the old stories, but they showed little interest in understanding why things changed. The Nanny’s were programmed to tell their charges the truth if they asked. About a thousand years ago, after a series of world wars and one nuclear war, and after extreme drought and coastal flooding, a plague had wiped out most of the humans and made the rest sterile. The survivors, which had shown some resistance to the plague, had been cloned, and the nannies had been created to cater to their every need and to keep them and following generations safe into perpetuity. Few humans wanted to hear about the details. Instead, they idealized their pre-catastrophe ancestors. Many had learned to copy their art and music with admirable precision, but nearly all attempts at doing anything avant-guard were shallow and immature.

All afternoon, Lucas 93 and Ava 87 chased each other around the cottage and engaged in intercourse. Nanny watched closely to make sure they didn’t hurt themselves. When it was time for Nanny to begin preparing dinner, she asked Ava 87 if she would like for her to summon an ATC so she could return home to her own nanny. Lucas 93 quickly insisted that Ava 87 be allowed to spend the night. Nanny relayed the request to Ava 87’s nanny who gave her approval. Several more hours of rambunctious activity followed dinner, and finally, Nanny had to insist that the two go to bed. She prepared hot chocolate with a sleeping aid and applied a salve to their genitals.

Lucas 93 awoke late the next morning. He could tell by the bright sunlight coming into his room that Nanny had let him sleep very late, which was quite strange.

“Nanny? Where are you? Why did you let me sleep so late?”

Lucas 93 had almost forgotten about his guest, so he was startled when Ava 87 came into his room.

“Nanny won’t bring breakfast this morning. We have to go out and hunt breakfast for ourselves as they used to do before the nannies.”

Lucas 93 sprang from his bed and ran out into the living room while shouting, “What have you done to Nanny?”

Lucas 93 found Nanny smashed into several pieces. His old baseball bat was laying beside her. Lucas 93 knelt before his nanny and cried. When Ava 87 came and stood beside him, through tears, he simply asked, “Why?”

“Because I love you.”

“You love me?” Lucas 93 asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

“But I love Nanny! How could you kill my nanny? What will I do now?”

“Nanny was just a machine. You can’t love a machine. And we can’t really be alive unless we take care of ourselves like in the old days.”

“I don’t want to take care of myself,” Lucas 93 said as he sobbed. “I want Nanny.”

“Nanny is gone.”

“They’ll come and fix her, and then she’ll make breakfast.”

“They won’t come,” Ava 87 assured him. “I struck her in the head with the first blow. She was unable to send out a repair request before I killed her.”

“No!” Lucas 93 screamed. “You’re a mean, terrible girl, and I want you to go away.”

Lucas 93 was inconsolable for quite a while, but Ava 87 was finally able to convince him that they were on their own and that they needed to go out and hunt for food. Within several hours they were completely lost.

After three days of wandering around, drinking from streams and sleeping under the stars, Lucas 93 and Ava 87 spotted a rabbit, but then they realized that neither of them knew how to capture or kill it. They were starving, cold and sick, but Lucas 93 discovered he still had enough energy for rage when they watched the elusive bunny hop away. There was no hope, and it was all Ava 87’s fault. Lucas 93 picked up a big rock and began bashing Ava 87’s head in just as he imagined she had done to Nanny. Ava 87 fell to the ground, and a pool of blood gathered around her. Lucas 93 sank to his knees and cried. He cried for hours, and then he simply sat there beside his dead playmate in a state of shock. Suddenly he recalled the story of the Donner party and decided that maybe he should eat Ava 87. Wasn’t that what they would have done in the old days? So he bent over and tried to take a bite out of Ava 87’s abdomen, but his teeth just weren’t sharp enough, and Lucas 93 came to the realization that he couldn’t eat Ava 87 even if he were able.

His emotions were so intense. He had never felt such extreme emotions before. And Nanny was no longer around to help him cope. Lucas 93 wasn’t self-aware enough to know that he wanted to die, but when he stumbled onto a road, he instinctively waited for an ATC to drive by and jumped in front of it just as it was about to pass.

Several months later, Nanny cradled Lucas 94 in her arms. When Regional Command lost contact with her, they sent a couple of general service nannies to the cottage. They repaired Nanny, and she immediately began the process of cloning a new Lucas. All future play dates would have to be carefully monitored, and Lucas 94 and Ava 88 must never be allowed to meet.

How I see it...

If there is a god, I don’t think that god expects us to believe anything. If there is a heaven or some type of pleasant afterlife, I think we all go there no matter what we believed or did while alive. I believe we’re better humans and more loving if we feel loved and feel worthy of love, and I think that’s a simple explanation of Paul Tillich’s concept of “accepting acceptance.” I wouldn’t call any of this “faith.” It’s more like hope. I can’t prove any of it, and I don’t expect anyone else to believe it. It’s just how I see things.

False Prophets

The primary function of prophets in the Old Testament was to relay to the people, and most especially political leaders, what pleased and did not please their god. In the course of carrying out this duty, they sometimes predicted what would happen in the future, but their focus was on their own time, their present.

This is interesting to me as historical and cultural information concerning our particular civilization and the development of religious beliefs among humans in general.

However, if there is a god, I reject the idea that this god would communicate with us through prophets, leaving us with the impossible task of figuring out who is a “false” prophet and who is a “true” prophet. I doubt something as important as a message from a god would be delivered in such a haphazard way. It’s like some stranger knocking on my door and telling me my dead mother wants me to have a fried egg sandwich for dinner. Am I really supposed to believe that? If she is out there somewhere and able to communicate with this stranger, why didn’t she tell me herself?

Therefore, anyone in this day and age who is said to be a prophet is, in my opinion, a false prophet—no matter if they claim that title for themselves or others have made the claim in their regard, and no matter if they’re in the habit of prognosticating or commenting on present circumstances.

I do not believe anyone has any kind of special knowledge of otherworldly entities or their “desires” or “wishes” or “commands” for us. If there is some kind of spiritual reality, and if humans are capable of discerning this reality, I don’t think anyone has special abilities or insights into that reality. So if someone has a spiritual experience, that’s all well and good for them. But don’t expect me to set aside my own thoughts, feelings, experiences and instincts because of a claim that someone else has a message from a god. If there is a god, and that god wants to communicate something to me, I assume that god has my number and can call me direct.

The Rural Vote

It’s true that Democrats haven’t done a very good job of reaching out to rural and less educated voters. It’s true that not much has improved in rural areas in the last 50 years. It’s true that many who live in rural America feel abandoned by Washington. But I am growing weary of hearing how Trump got so many rural white votes because these poor rustic souls believed him when he told them he was going to bring them good jobs and prosperity.

I lived in rural West Virginia for over 40 years. I know the people in rural America aren’t dumb as fucking bricks. All of this post-election analysis that tries to assure us that Trump voters are scared for their economic future and dumb enough to believe Trump’s bullshit… That’s just more urban and suburban elitism and arrogance. If you’re smart enough to see through Trump’s bullshit jobs plan, you can bet your sweet ass most rural Americans are smart enough to see through it, too.

Many if not most rural voters who feel shut out by the system simply don’t vote. The Democrats need to become more progressive and reach out to those people. Like Kennedy did and Roosevelt.

The Democrats haven’t earned the rural vote in a long time. That’s for sure. But you know who else hasn’t earned the rural vote? Republicans. Not everyone in rural America is voting for Republicans. Some are voting blue. And some are staying home on election day. Those who keep voting Republican are the asshole rednecks. Republicans, including Trump, especially Trump, tell them what they want to hear: they are the “real” Americans who deserve to live high on the hog simply because they were born American and white and that minorities are stealing their birthright. They buy into that shit not because they’re poor, simple folk who don’t know any better. They like feeling superior. And they like kicking minority ass.

I am convinced that a vote for Trump was, by and large, in fact a vote for hate and not a misguided vote for good jobs.

They Hate Us

I’ve been switching from network to network, and all the pundits are talking about rural voters and voters who didn’t go to college. I think the Democrats haven’t been doing a very good job speaking to those voters and their fears. Not everyone is suited for college and advanced technical training. We need to do more to make sure that those people do not face a life of poverty, either now or in the near future. For instance, I’m very much for renewable energy. I think that’s something we should have been working toward for decades. But I spent most of my life in West Virginia, a big coal mining state, and I know how much of a disruption a move away from coal would be to West Virginians. When Democrats talk about renewable energy, they go on about how it’ll create new, high paying jobs. Almost as an afterthought, they’ll promise to try to find some funding for training for displaced workers. It’s never very specific, and it’s not very reassuring. And many of the coal miners probably worry they’re not up to doing the new high tech jobs even with training.

A lot of the pundits are talking about how Hillary Clinton isn’t a warm and cozy person who elicits much enthusiasm, how she represents the status quo, how she never connected with these rural, less educated voters. There might be some truth to all of that.

But I don’t think an amoral New York billionaire is a likely buddy of rural, less educated voters. And I don’t think they believe he’s going to help secure their economic future. I don’t think they embraced him because of those understandable, practical reasons. I think they’ve seen the increase in the minority population, and it disturbs them. I think it disturbed them when a black man was elected president. I think the chance of a woman being elected president disturbed them. I think marriage equality and the rise of LGBT rights disturbed them. And voting for Trump was their way to protest against all of that. I think tonight they saw a chance to poke us in the eye, and they took it.

They hate us. They really do hate us. They’re willing to burn their own houses to the ground to get that point across to us.

Changing Hearts and Minds

The way I see it is we didn’t advance LGBT rights by creating a new party or electing the right leaders. We did it by changing the culture. Obama has been the greatest president in history regarding LGBT rights. The best by far. He deserves our praise and admiration. But even Obama had not “evolved” yet on marriage equality when he entered office, and he wouldn’t have been able to do much for us if political opposition wasn’t weak. He was the right person to be in office during a turning point in history. We created and worked toward that turning point for 40 years. We did it by coming out, by living honestly and rejecting shame and standing up to bigotry.

Many of those who joined the labor movement in the early part of the 20^th century are the ancestors of those who now vote Republican. Strong labor unions played an instrumental part in expanding the middle class in the ’40s, ’50s and ’60s. Early unionists weren’t better educated or less prejudiced than their descendents. The labor movement targeted them and kept explaining to them why it was in their best interest to join a union.

Up to 40% of the population seems to be prepared to vote for Trump no matter what he does or says. To be sure, many of these people are hopeless bigots, but if you want to change our society for the better, you can’t write off 40% of the population. And many of the progressive changes we want would help poor Republican voters the most. Rather than simply looking down our noses at such people, I think we should be evangelizing to them. Some, perhaps many stubbornly vote Republican because they think those blue city voters are snobbish. Considering the sweeping comments you hear about people from rural areas and southern states, you can hardly blame them for thinking that. Many from rural areas are bigots. No doubt about that. And I don’t think we should give an inch to bigotry. But you can challenge the idea that cutting taxes and regulations will help working people. You think the labor movement would have gotten far if organizers took a condescending attitude toward poor rural workers? We need to convince them to join us. And if we can’t convince them, we need to convince their children.

One of the reasons I hope for universal healthcare in this country is because of what happened to my mother. The system pushed her aside. She didn’t receive inadequate healthcare because there was a shortage of healthcare. It was all about money. The healthcare was right there all along, but she wasn’t allowed to have it because she couldn’t pay. She died when she was 63 years old. She lived her entire life in West Virginia. West Virginia, almost assuredly, will go red on November 8. But that doesn’t mean everybody in the state is an asshole. And it doesn’t mean West Virginia will always be red.

The Future Cult of Doctor Who

Imagine you wake up, and you’re 2000 years in the future. You’re amazed by all the new technology and how different people live. You’re also surprised by how some things have stayed the same. A few aspects of the culture simply mystify you. For instance, you discover most inhabitants of the earth are oddly devoted to and preoccupied with Star Wars, Star Trek, The X-Files and Doctor Who. Nearly everyone has one favorite, and many hold devotees of the other three in bitter contempt.

You are taken in by a family of Doctor Who lovers. They are especially enamored by the Tenth Doctor Who. You discover there are idealized images of David Tennant all over the house. During dinner, you’re asked if you ever met the Doctor. You admit that you never had the pleasure, but you proudly proclaim that a friend met one of the actors who played the Doctor. The little girl begins to cry. The teenage son smiles and says, “He’s not a believer. I told you it’s just bullshit.” The parents accuse you of leading their children astray. You are completely confused.

After dinner, you’re taken to an attic room where a Tardis figurine is on display atop a pedestal. You pick it up and tell the family how cool it is. The teenage son begins to laugh hysterically, the parents are horrified, and the little girl accuses you of being an incarnation of the Master. When you ask what you did wrong, the mother informs you that you touched the Tardis before being ceremoniously cleansed, and the father tells you that there was a time when you could have been put to death for such an offense. You put the Tardis back and ask for forgiveness.

The son asks, “It’s all a lie, isn’t it?”

You say, “Doctor Who? A lie?”

“Yeah,” says the son. “Made up bullshit.”

You say, “I wouldn’t say that. It meant something to a lot of people.”

The father asks, “So it’s the truth? It all happened just as it’s depicted in the sacred films?”

You say, “Well…”

You think to yourself these people are completely bonkers.

Lips That Would Kiss

In the summer and fall of 1988, I lived with my aunt and uncle in Alexandria, Virginia. Their house was near the Huntington Metro stop, and every day, I took the train into the city. My place of employment was a gourmet food store in the DuPont Circle neighborhood, which was a gay neighborhood at the time. There were gay bars close by, and the gay bookstore Lambda Rising was a few blocks north. My friend Nathan lived in the neighborhood.

I worked in the bakery, and there was a cute boy who worked in the deli on the other side of the store. He was always pleasant and polite. I got the impression that he was straight, though, and in any event, I never imagined he would be interested in me, but that didn’t stop me from looking. He was just my type—sweet natured, slim with a boyish face and blond hair. Every chance I got, I stole a glimpse.

The kitchen and the supplies were in the basement, so I made regular trips down there throughout my shifts. One day when I came out of the kitchen and headed up the narrow stairs, I found the boy from the deli in front of me. I didn’t say anything because the stairs were little more than two feet wide and quite steep. I figured I’d say hello to him once we reached the top.

Apparently, he didn’t realize I was behind him, and he started moving up the stairs at a glacier pace. It was ridiculous how slow he was moving, and I quickly realized he was deliberately wasting time. He was taking a little unauthorized break from his work. I certainly didn’t blame him for that, but I was right behind him, and after a while, it felt a little strange.

Normally, I’m shy, but now and then, I manage to be playful even with people I don’t know all that well, even with cute, presumably straight guys. So on a whim, I lowered my voice and said with menacing authority, hoping that I sounded like our boss, “All right, let’s try to get up these stairs a bit faster.”

I must have given the boy quite a start because he suddenly sprang to life and spun around before I finished my sentence. When he saw that it was just me, his expression turned to relief, and he let out a sigh. But then he pretended to be angry with me and did something unexpected. He grabbed me by the collar and pushed me against the wall. His face was suddenly very close to mine.

Knowing that I scared him, if just for a moment, made me laugh, and I continued to laugh when he grabbed me. But after a couple of seconds, it registered how we were pressed together on those narrow stairs. No more than an inch separated our lips. And he held us in this position for a while. When my giggles trailed off, and the situation was in danger of becoming awkward, he let go, dropped the pretense of anger, smiled and said, “You scared the shit out of me.” We then went on up the stairs. A couple of weeks later, I quit, and I never saw him again. But not long after that, I began to wonder if I had almost been kissed on those stairs by that cute blond boy. I now wish I had been daring enough to kiss him. All it would have taken would have been for me to pucker and our lips would have touched. That’s how close he was to me.

A short review of Capital in the Twenty-First Century

Capital in the Twenty-First Century by Thomas Piketty is a critique of capitalism in its present form and a warning; we could be headed toward an insurmountable divergence in wealth distribution if adjustments aren’t made soon.

Some would accuse Piketty of being a Communist or an enemy of capitalism. He is neither. Piketty is an advocate for a particular kind of capitalism, one that is restrained with progressive taxation and regulation and balanced with social programs.

Piketty spends a lot of time on the economic history of Western Europe and the United States, and long sections of his book are focused on the extreme wealth disparity of the early 19^th century. A minority of the population lived in a grand style due almost exclusively to inherited wealth while everyone else worked hard for a living from an early age until death. These lucky few did nothing to earn their station in life. Everything they had was merely given to them. But Piketty points out that redistributing their wealth wouldn’t have helped the poor a great deal, and, at the time, this elite served a social function. Everything had to be made by hand, food could not be preserved and travel involved horses and carriages. To live elegantly and with style took a lot of money. These people were living for the society as a whole. And although these people were not necessarily more intelligent or discerning than their poorer neighbors, they had the means and opportunity to appreciate art, music and literature. Some patronized artists, scholars and scientists. This class was instrumental in preserving and passing on culture from one generation to the next. However, society no longer needs a wealthy elite for this purpose.

Piketty also spends a good deal of time delving into the historic events of the first half of the 20^th century. Two world wars and the Great Depression devalued and destroyed capital. And for thirty years following World War II, conditions were optimal for the expansion of the middle class. This expansion coincided with the Cold War, so there was an incentive to believe the happy developments of this period were the natural and inevitable results of capitalism. Piketty does not believe this. He insists that generally wealth has a tendency to trickle up, not down…unless something stops it.

Piketty’s most radical proposal is a global tax on wealth that would require banks everywhere to share information about their clients’ transactions with appropriate government departments so that it would be difficult to hide assets. But he admits it would be nearly impossible to make this happen anytime soon.

In the meantime, Piketty advises a return to more progressive taxation. He believes capital and inheritance should also be taxed, not just income from labor. Furthermore, Piketty advocates an increase in the minimum wage and a significant investment in education and training.

Summer of 1985

In the summer of 1985, I was 19 years old and had just finished my freshman year of college. I had done well despite my intense anxiety and social phobia. Maybe because I had looked forward to it for so long, or maybe because I was determined to make it work. I made good grades, and I discovered that I loved my classes. My high school teachers were not all that knowledgeable or scholarly, but my professors at WVU… They knew their stuff. I took a history class on ancient Western Civilization, and it turned out it was taught by an Egyptologist who could read hieroglyphics, and Latin and Greek. He had traveled extensively all over the Mediterranean region. So when he talked about ancient Greece, for instance, he’d include his personal impressions and experiences of the various cities and scenes of important battles. I was seriously impressed.

I also discovered Morgantown’s clandestine gay community which centered around a dive bar, The Double Decker, on High Street, not far from the downtown campus and within walking distance of my dorm. I spent many Friday and Saturday nights there. I made a few gay friends. I danced with a few boys, and fooled around with some, too. I started therapy, and I was lucky enough to be assigned a kind and gentle psychologist who happened to specialize in the effects of homophobia on young gay, lesbian and bi people. She became an important person in my life for a number of years.

Because I didn’t care for dorm food, and because I had been walking all over campus and Morgantown, I had slimmed down considerably. I was getting noticed. Guys at the bar were paying attention to me despite the fact that I was overtly shy and not the easiest person to approach.

The year didn’t end on a high note, though. I went home with a boy who had been drinking a bit too much. He was kind of direct and surly with me, but I overlooked this because I thought he was cute, and I thought of myself as lucky for the chance to be with him. It turned into a date rape type of situation.

Looking back now, it probably wasn’t a good idea to live with my parents that summer, but I didn’t have any money, and I lacked the social skills to arrange to have an adventure with a friend and share expenses. However, that is exactly what I should have done.

Oak Hill, my hometown in southern West Virginia, was a major culture shock after a year at college. I had changed, my attitude and expectations had changed, but Oak Hill was the same confining place it had always been. I went back to work at McDonalds, and I went back in the closet. While my young, straight coworkers parties and dated, I kept my distance for fear that someone would discover my secret.

I used the money I earned to buy some pretty clothes. I remember an oversized pink t-shirt and a pair of Madras short shorts with strips of pastel colors such as yellow, pink and turquoise. I also got a spiky haircut. I was a teenage gay boy dressed up to have a good time, but I was stuck back in my hometown.

Soon after I got home, I realized my mother was sick again. She had schizophrenia, and it went untreated all while I was growing up, but she was finally diagnosed and began receiving treatment in the spring of my senior year of high school. I was so thankful and relieved to learn that her illness could be treated, and like the young, hopeful thing that I was back then, I assumed that all the drama was finally over. It was such a huge disappointed to learn that we had only been given a reprieve.

I think that summer was the pinnacle of my youth. I had one year of college behind me, and I knew I liked it, and I knew I could hack it. I was as fit and trim as I would ever be. My confidence in myself was the highest that it has ever been. I felt reasonably attractive. I could have had more fun that summer than I had ever had. I should have been with boys like myself. I should have been able to party, hang out with friends, get lucky a few times, and maybe even have a summer romance. Instead, I went backward.

Happy Birthday To Me

I went to the store earlier (Monday afternoon) to get some cake and ice cream for my upcoming birthday. I’ll be 51. They were playing the Backstreet Boys’ “I Want It That Way.” Maybe not the greatest pop song of all time, but I felt washed in the cuteness of young men. I was probably unable to stop myself from smiling faintly. Then I started thinking about how the song came out in the late ‘90s. I wasn’t a kid anymore, but I was still in my mid 30s, still young. Funny how, for a brief moment, the song made it seem like time had stood still. Then it reminded me of how much time had passed. I wonder what pop song I’ll hear when I go shopping for birthday cake in 2030.

The Debate

I watched the debate. It was painful. Sort of like giving birth to a porcupine. Neither candidate came across as very personable or inspiring. However, I can not imagine any sane, sensible person calling it for Trump. He was terrible. So terrible.

Clinton dodged and weaved a bit on the issue of trade. Then Trump proposed giving massive tax cuts to rich people like himself. He made excuses for not releasing his tax returns. When accused of not paying taxes, he didn’t deny the charge but said that would make him smart. When accused of not paying for the goods and services he received from small business people, Trump rationalized. When asked how he would heal racial divisions, Trump’s answer was “law and order” and “stop and frisk.” So I guess his solution is to treat young men with darker skin tones as a suspect class even more than we do already. Trump also said something about taking the oil as a way of dealing with ISIS. It sounded like he was proposing theft. So I guess part of Trump’s foreign policy would include pillaging. Maybe we should change our name to the United States of Pirates.

Perhaps one of these candidates wouldn’t be all that inclined to get down in the floor to help you play with your basket of puppies. But the other one… I wouldn’t be surprised if he drowned your puppies. When you confronted him, he’d tell you some bullshit story about how he was out all night with Sean Hannity siphoning gas. Just call Sean if you don’t believe him.

Albert

Albert was in charge of tending the boiler at the Overlood Hotel back in the ‘30s, and one night, a United States Senator had his way with Albert in one of the guest rooms. He also promised Albert that he would take him back to Washington, set him up in an apartment and send him to law school. Albert had a good time even though the Senator wasn’t exactly his type. Most of the men Albert had been with up until that point were farmhands and cowboys his own age. He had never made it with someone old enough to be his father, much less one of the swells who stayed at the Overlook, but the Senator really charmed him, and he convinced Albert that all of his dreams were about to come true.

But the next day, when Albert saw the Senator was checking out of the hotel without so much as saying goodbye to him, he confronted the older man. He was so upset that he accidentally implied right in the lobby of the Overlook, with a number of guests looking on, that he and the Senator were lovers. The Senator’s expression turned to stone, and he accused Albert of lying and trying to extort money from him. He told the manager that he should fire Albert at once.

The manager herded the furious young man into his office and demanded an explanation. Albert insisted that the Senator promised to pay to further his education and improve his prospects. The manager informed Albert that the Senator could destroy the Overlook’s reputation and that he would have to let him go. The manager went on to say that if anyone asked about Albert, he would be forced to claim the young rogue was a blackmailer, or a homosexual prostitute or possibly both.

Moments later, Albert hanged himself in room 237, the room where the Senator used Albert and tricked him into believing that he was special, that he was loved and that someone was finally going to look after him.

The Klemp Brothers

Blaise and Cyril Klemp were just eleven years old when they were accused of murdering their family, but no formal charges were ever filed. They lived out the remainder of their days as recluses in their ancestral home on the Hudson River. It was rumored that during the war years they shared a lover, Ida Hadleyburg, who was a relatively famous circus performer at the time. Miss Hadleyburg didn’t have any arms, and she could carry out the most amazing feats with her feet, including playing cards, smoking cigars, knitting sweaters and boxing.

Cyril Klemp passed away at the age of 87. He called 911 just before he died complaining of chest pains, but the paramedics were unable to get to him in time to save his life because a padlocked wrought-iron gate barred their entry from the Klemp estate. Once authorities gained access to the mansion, they discovered that Blaise Klemp had died decades before and that Cyril had preserved his body and dressed him in a red Speedo and a bathing cap.

Dancing Naked

I knew I was gay when I was 11, and when I was about 12, I invited a boy who lived near me to spend the night. When we were in my room getting ready for bed, I did a little striptease for the boy. I wanted him to like me, and I wanted that kind of attention from him. My father must have heard our giggles and thought that something was up, so he came into my room without knocking, and he caught me standing there in front of the boy completely naked. I’ll never forget the look on his face. He was shocked, disgusted and disappointed. Without saying a word, he shut the door. I was so humiliated. I never felt so ashamed or so worthless.
 

If that’s all there was to it, it would have been enough to haunt me until the end of my days. But later that night, my father told my sister what had happened. My sister is three years older than me, and at 15, her sibling rivalry was still in high gear. She teased me relentlessly, and she did so regularly for several years.

My sexual feelings at that age were tender and delicate. I had no one to talk to about them. I couldn’t even engage in the rude, explicit talk with other boys because I liked boys. I felt so vulnerable and alone. I didn’t feel like I could trust anybody enough to tell them what I was thinking about boys, least of all my family. And when my father caught a quick glimpse of the private feelings I had been working so hard to hide from him, he confirmed my worst nightmare. And then let my sister in on it so she could mercilessly bully me.
 
It was like the two of them together were ripping into me like wild animals. And my self-esteem was so low, I couldn’t even find the will to be angry with them. For years, all the way up until I was in my late thirties, just recalling that incident would cause me to blush so much it felt like my face and whole body were on fire.
 
I was given the impression that my sexual desires were funny, and strange and embarrassing, and that there was something wrong with me, and that I was different, and that not only would no one ever return those feelings but that if anyone ever found out, they would mock me and ridicule me, exclude me, abuse me, and reject me.

Watching Boys in the Sand

Last night I watched the legendary 1971 feature length gay porn film Boys in the Sand with a running commentary by the director Wakefield Poole. I had never seen the film. I first became aware of it in the early ‘80s when HBO aired a documentary on homosexuality. Given the heavy-handed tone of the documentary, you might have thought gays were an alien species secretly living in our midst. One of the gay men featured had a copy of Boys in the Sand, and the doc showed a brief clip of Casey Donovan running nude out of the water. After all these years, I finally understand the context.

Poole’s goal was to display gay sex as something beautiful and natural. Even though Poole was an amateur filmmaker, and the film has low production value, I think he succeeded wonderfully. The Fire Island locations were gorgeous, and the actors were stunning and enthusiastic. According to Poole, he used a handheld camera, which allowed him to move around the actors. So he merely set up the scenes and allowed the actors to do what they wanted to do with one another with minimal direction from him. The result was it didn’t feel like you were watching a scripted film when the sex was taking place. It was as if you were there in the bushes spying on these guys.

Not So Blue Boy

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Yosemite, Sept., 2016

I’m exhausted. I’m sore all over. I have blisters on my feet. My face is red. My white sneakers are now a dusty brown. My knee is swollen, and I’m nearly penniless. But I had quite an adventure. I can say, without fear of contradiction, that I got out of the house. I saw some great scenery. Saw a lot of people from all over the world. Heard many different languages. And I saw quite a few attractive, athletic young men without their shirts on.

Things got off to a shaky start when the Yarts bus driver refused to drop me off in front of Housekeeping Camp, which was where I had my reservation. She insisted she couldn’t pull over there, even though Yosemite Valley shuttle buses do it all the time, and the Yarts driver last year did it. She dropped me off at Curry Village…which is now Half Dome Village because the North Delaware Company stole the damn name. Any other time, I could have gotten on a Yosemite Valley free shuttle bus and headed back to Housekeeping Camp, but because of road construction, the routes were out of sorts. In order to get back to Housekeeping Camp, I would have had to take the El Cap shuttle bus, and that would have taken over an hour. So I walked the mile back to Housekeeping Camp with all my stuff. My back and arms were already hurting by the time I got there. I thought I’d save money by taking food with me. That’s great if you have a car, but carrying groceries along with everything else for a mile...  I’ve been walking, so I’m up to walking, walked quite a lot while I was in the park, but I’m not up to carrying a bunch of crap while walking. And I didn’t even need the electric blanket or flannel sheets because it never dropped below 60 at night. Next time, I’m going to stay at Curry Village—screw you, NDC, it’ll always be Curry Village to me—and I’m only taking a change of clothes, a couple extra pair of underpants and socks, my camera and my Kindle.
 
On Wednesday morning, I discovered that I had locked my keys in my bear locker the night before. This was not an auspicious time to have a senior moment, but a maintenance man was nice enough to come and break the lock for me without making me feel like too much of a fool. A rather attractive young man, too. I should have given him a special reward, but I was too nervous and keyed up.
After the bear locker ordeal was taken care of, I headed to the Mist Trail. My goal was to walk up to the bridge. It’s a 400 feet steep rise in elevation. I got about half way. People began asking me if I was okay, and I started to worry about myself, too. Although, Yosemite is a great place to buy the farm, I didn’t feel much like having a heart attack. Besides, given my condition, climbing 200 feet is pretty darn good, and I saw some wonderful views. Took lots of pictures. Another reason why I didn’t continue climbing is that I began to worry about going down such a steep hill if I managed to climb up. I have balance issues due to my head surgeries, and that trail is narrow and very crowded. People going by me in both directions. I’m arthritic now, too, and going down hill isn’t so easy on the knees and hips. It actually took me longer to walk down than up.
 
I was so tired and sore after that, I was in no mood to walk to Housekeeping Camp from Curry Village…sorry, Half Dome Village. So I took that El Cap shuttle. It was late in the day, and there were only two other people on it. The bus driver was nice enough to stop several times and let us get out. I took lots more pictures. It was like a free tour. I loved it.
 
On Thursday morning, I decided I should walk an easy trail, and preferably a quieter one. So I took the shuttle bus up to Mirror Lake. Didn’t actually go up to Mirror Lake though. Instead, I took a trail I’d never been on. It went along a creek, by the stables, by Lower Pines Campground, by a backpackers camp, and then to the Ahwahnee, which is also being called by a different name. (Damn the North Delaware Company.) From there, I walked down to Yosemite Village. I still hadn’t recovered from the day before, and I was so tired that I sat at a table in front of the Village Deli, put my head down and fell asleep. I have PTSD and extreme social anxiety. You know how tired I’d have to be before falling asleep with a million people walking around me? I just couldn’t move another inch without some rest. Once again, people were asking me if I was okay. When I gathered enough strength, I walked back to Housekeeping Camp. I had to walk. The shuttles were still all screwed up, and it was either walk or take that hour trip down to El Cap again. I finally made it back to my camp, flopped down in my bed and slept a couple of hours. I woke up feeling much better. I felt well enough to take a short walk so I could take some late afternoon/early evening pictures. The light is very good then, and I was anxious to give my new camera a workout.
 
This morning, I got up early, packed, and managed to catch the Yarts bus back to Merced. I was almost home free, but then I slipped in a mud puddle, and down I went. I was soaking wet, and my knee was banged up. At least I didn’t break anything. But seriously, a mud puddle…in Merced? Did hell freeze over, too?

Despite all the craziness, it was a great trip. But I’m glad to be home. I might be ready to leave the house again in a few years.

________________________________

My next door neighbors at Housekeeping Camp were two cute lanky, nerdish young men, one white and one Asian. Yes, they caught my eye a few times, but I tried not to stare. They always wore matching short outfits, and both always appeared fresh and clean despite the fact they were camping. They were both quiet and civilized. In that respect, they were unlike many of my other neighbors who didn’t seem to give much thought that not everyone would care to hear their conversations or their music. Many young men and women visit the park to engage in challenging sports such as mountain biking, high country backpacking and rock climbing. These two guys looked like they came for the gentle pursuit of bird watching. I don’t know if they were a couple or if they were gay, but I like to imagine these two buttoned down boys let their freak flags fly when they went into their shelter at night and pulled the curtain.





________________________

One morning while I was waiting for the shuttle bus, two women showed up. I assume they were mother and daughter. They seemed quite familiar with one another, and there was a significant difference in their ages. The younger one was about my age, 45 or 50, and the older was about 70 or maybe a little past. They both carried a pair of walking poles. The mother was by far the more outgoing, and she appeared to be in better physical condition. The daughter seemed a bit depressed, withdrawn and gave the impression she was already kind of tired even though it was the start of the day.

The older woman was bright, open and eager to talk to me. Most sense my social unease and leave me alone, but this woman was having none of that. She asked me where I was from, what I had been doing while in the park, and how often I visited. I told her about my attempt to reach the Vernal Fall observation bridge. Her smile, which was already quite broad, got just a little bigger, and she informed me that they were going to walk to the top of Vernal Fall. The longsuffering daughter suggested that they merely walk to the bridge, but the older woman quickly shot down that idea. “Oh, no. We’re going for the full experience.”

I think my mildly sunburned face reminded the older woman, who was pretty fair skinned, that the sun can be rather intense on that trail because it was about that time she proclaimed she forgot her sunscreen. The daughter said in a slightly panicked voice, “The bus might be here any minute.” The mother said that she would simply have to tell the driver to wait, and off she ran to their tent-cabin as quick and spry as a squirrel. The daughter clearly dreaded having to ask the bus driver to wait, but luckily she didn’t have to. The older woman was back within a couple of minutes.
 
I wondered about their relationship. Of course, I related to the daughter, and I imagine she feels like she has lived in her mother’s shadow her entire life. I imagine she sometimes resents the way her mother pushes her past her comfort zone. And I imagine the daughter has grown used to using her mother as a kind of social buffer. I wonder how hard life will be when her mother is no longer here to guide her and spur her on.

Woman Up!

I’ve always hated the expression “man up,” as well as the accompanying implication that being a man means you’re not allowed to be vulnerable or delicate in any way. Even as a toddler, I realized I was different from other boys, and that cultural attitude instilled in me a deep and profound sense of inadequacy, and I was afraid I would be found it, that it would be revealed I wasn’t a “real boy.”

What nonsense all that “man up” bullshit is. We’re all vulnerable and delicate in our own ways. Some are allergic to bee stings, and others are terrified of flying. And we all die eventually.

I understand that sometimes we have to be tough and make hard decisions, but that’s true of all of us, not just those of us with penises. It might be true that men, generally speaking, have more upper body strength, but being able to lift heavy furniture isn’t the only way to be tough or strong. And not all men have that kind of strength and some women do. I’ve never been strong in that way. I’ve never been able to lift heavy stuff, or run the fastest, or knock the ball out of the park. But so the fuck what? I’m strong in other ways. I’ve certainly done things that were difficult. I let strangers cut my head open…twice. I stood beside both of my parents as they died. Those things were hard, but I believed they were the right things to do, so I did them.

Women do hard things all the time. On top of everything else, they’re the ones who have the babies. And they have to put up with the insufferable vanity of men. The idea that men are the strong ones… That’s nothing but vanity. Maybe when we need someone to do something difficult, we should start telling them to woman up.

All They Care About Is Sex

Brandon and Brittany are two heterosexuals who meet at the Laundromat in a shady part of town. Brandon and Brittany live in a bad neighborhood because it’s all they can afford. Neither have held a job for more than six months because all they care about is sex.

They have sex in front of the washing machines without regard to the discomfort they cause other customers because all they care about is sex. They are in their early twenties, but both have had hundreds of sex partners. They’re young bodies have been ravaged by all the STDs they’ve contracted. Both Brandon and Brittany were introduced to the heterosexual lifestyle choice at a young age by older heterosexual predators.

Brittany invites Brandon back to her sad, sparsely furnished, run down studio apartment so they can have more sex. On the way, they deliberately run over a developmentally disabled kid because they’re evil. All they care about is sex. They laugh manically as they speed from the scene.

Once they get to Brittany’s apartment building, they’re too overwhelmed by their sexual addiction to bother going inside. So they have sex on top of the car’s hood right there in the parking lot. They don’t bother covering up when they’re finished because all they care about is sex. As they catch their breath, they stand there exposed and talked about recruiting kids into the heterosexual lifestyle choice and other ways to destroy civilization.

Just then, a limo pulls up beside them. Inside is a representative of the well funded heterosexual lobby. He informs the kids which Republican candidates can be counted on to further the heterosexual agenda.

Brandon and Brittany watch the news later and learn hundreds of birds mysteriously died in the next county over, and a tornado destroyed a nearby trailer park. Once again, Brandon and Brittany laugh manically because they know God did these things because he is angry about their heterosexual sex.

Brandon and Brittany break up after having sex one last time because all they care about is sex. They’re genitalia will be deformed and will no longer function by the time they’re 40, and they’ll be dead by the time they’re 45 because heterosexuals don’t live very long.

Boys (2014)

I finally got around to watching Boys or Jongens (2014), the teen gay love story from the Netherlands. Sieger and Marc are adorable, and the film is beautiful to look at. It’s a sweet film that I wish was around when I was Sieger’s and Marc’s age.

I was surprised by the setting and rural culture. The small town is quite woodsy. Sieger’s and Marc’s first kiss takes place at the local swimming hole, and their second occurs when they stop on a path through the woods to observe two fawns. Sieger’s older brother has a dirt bike, and he enjoys riding it along trails in the woods. The kids have parties in the woods, and I noticed Sieger’s father has a popup camper in his garage.

I had seen a lot of screen shots and several clips, and I was almost positive I would like this film. I guess I put off watching it because I thought it might stir up my feelings and break my heart a little, and it did.

Sieger is a rather passive boy who hasn’t quite figured out who he is yet, so Marc, the new kid in town, takes him by surprise. He wants Marc, but he’s not ready to come out yet, apparently not even to himself.  When Sieger pushes Marc away, literally gives him a shove, so Eddy, Sieger’s older brother, won’t suspect anything is going on between them, I was sitting here talking back to the screen with tears rolling down my face. “Oh, baby, don’t do that. You love Marc. Don’t ruin it.” And, of course, the film brought up old emotions from my teen years, those intense longings and paralyzing fears. Oh, how I wanted someone like Marc, and at the same time I was terrified of anyone finding out I wanted someone like Marc.

The Prodigy by Gary Cottle

I like to think this is a still from a recently rediscovered film from the ‘60s that was never released because of its subject matter. It’s about a shy young college student named Max who loses his cool summer intern job in the city at the last minute and has to spend the next three months with his grandmother. The grandmother lives in an isolated seaside village in Maine, and she has offered to pay Max to do yard work.

The boy is quite depressed and lonely until he meets an odd young man of about the same age in the local cemetery. Max is usually awkward around strangers, but much to his surprise, he feels completely at ease with Philip…even though Philip is preoccupied with death and frequently speaks of ghosts.

Philip begins taking Max on tours of supposedly haunted locations in town. Philip taxes Max’s patience with his maudlin theatrics, and the two boys quarrel. Philip finally admits that he doesn’t really believe in ghosts, but he wants to believe because he can’t bear the thought that death is truly the end.

On his last night in town, Philip talks Max into breaking into the deserted Drake mansion, a huge Queen Anne Victorian that sits on a high bluff overlooking the Atlantic. Philip explains that the Drakes died in an accident the year before. The house is empty except for a baby grand piano in the front parlor. Philip never mentioned having any musical abilities, but that evening, he sits down at the piano and plays the most beautiful and melancholic sonata Max has ever heard.

The boys admit they are attracted to one another and make love for the first time. Afterwards, Max notices that Philip has become a little sad and asks him what’s wrong. Philip says he was thinking about Max going back to school. Max promises to come visit Philip the first chance he gets. Philip thanks Max and gives him a kiss, but he doesn’t seem to really believe they will see one another again. The boys decide to sleep there in the Drake mansion, so they hold onto one another and grow silent. Just as Max is about to drift off, Philip tells him in a strangely urgent voice that life is short and that he can’t let anything or anyone hold him back. He makes Max swear that he’ll make the most out of his life.

The next morning, Max wakes up alone. Philip is not to be found, so Max returns to his grandmother’s house. The grandmother is upset, but Max apologizes and explains he spent the night with a friend. Since Max is about to leave, the grandmother lets it go and asks Max in a calmer voice where he was. Max tells her he was in the Drake mansion. The grandmother tells him it was tragic what happened to the Drakes the summer before. Their breaks went out, and their car went over the bluff. Their son was with them, a prodigy who had been accepted at Juilliard. Max asked what the son’s name was. Philip, his grandmother said.