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tyrants are all the same.
    You can’t stand any voice of reason intruding on your fantasies of power and domination.
    Say something, Ayatollah!
    I dare you!
    Come into this world and see how it feels to be treated as I’ve been treated by you, like an invisible!
    I exist!
    I will prove it to you!
    Oh you won’t be so jolly then!
    I admit I’m not one of those men who understand things immediately.
    I’m not a man who, for example, learns to speak Spanish just so he can order the proper chimichanga at the Taco Teca.
    No, knowledge comes to me slowly, but I believe this “slow uptake” and inability to “take the hint” allows true knowledge—gnosis—to eventually infiltrate my being.
    It is knowledge beyond my admittedly rather pitiful striving to “understand.”
    In NOT understanding the Spanish language, for example, I have come to a greater appreciation for Latin culture.
    I have forced myself to learn how to decipher supralinguistic cultural clues in order to place my “order” with aplomb and style.
    We’ll go someday, you and I, to the Taco Teca and I will show you.
    You’ll see.
    In the same way, when I tried/was forced to explain myself to my court-ordered therapist, she, with her beady eyes and piercing beak, asked, after much hemming and hawing, “Did that man touch your penis?”
    I laughed.
    â€œDid he?”
    For you see, this therapist was such an idiot she needed a direct answer to a direct question, as if that would solve anything!
    â€œOh yeah,” I said then, waving a hand dismissively, because the penis-touching was all so long ago, and I could see the therapist wanted to DEFINE me by this one act, going on and on about “trespass” and “incest,” and so on.
    Who cares?
    Couldn’t she see that NOT uncovering the memory, not examining it for clues, leaving it alone in the past, made it all the more interesting?
    She wanted to neutralize it!
    But why?
    Such “traumas” have made me who I am, and I long ago stopped apologizing for who I am.
    I don’t speak Spanish.
    Deal with it.
    Bring me a chimichanga!
    But my case?
    Let’s not be distracted by these trifles, and let us concentrate on what does indeed matter.
    And what matters?
    Truth, my dears; justice, unions, reunions, the coupling of man and woman, boy and girl, father and son, myself and Charli, marriage.
    â€œMarriage,” in this case, meaning a “whimsical” “event,” developed, it seems, for mere entertainment or, worse, photo opportunities.
    Beyond what we both now know to be the true nature of this wedding (a point through which Chris Novtalis will stick his own penis), it makes me sad.
    It’s as if it’s just a party thrown by the couple for their friends and family, marking no real occasion but itself.
    A wedding should be a societal ceremony of some kind, not simply a drunken game with a free chicken dinner.
    I have been to a similar wedding to what Charli has planned—I have, readers, a nephew.
    At his shabby nuptial event, it seemed there was a veritable ocean of twenty-five-year-olds, all dressed “fashionably,” sizing one another up, preening.
    I am aware that fashion, by its very nature, calls untoward attention to its deviation from normative style, but every single article of clothing worn by these young men and women seemed to either have invisible quotation marks hovering above it or some ridiculous lighted arrow signs mocking the very idea of clothing.
    Can no one under thirty simply wear a suit or a dress, get a haircut, or sport a pair of shoes without screaming, “Notice above all that I am special!”?
    Don’t bother answering.
    The question is obviously rhetorical.
    And the drinks!
    I simply wanted a Michelob Ultra and was told (quite rudely) that there was only a “signature cocktail” made with rum, or a “shandy” made from light beer and