“Justin Trudeau is at the airport hugging and kissing refugees, giving them jackets. My people can’t even drink the water. Put that bald guy in charge. I forget his name. The exchange. Some show like that. Look at our cabinet. We’ve got four turbans. What’s that about? We’ve got the best country in the world and we’re giving it away.”
After a long evening spent with the Romantic poets or conceptual artists we’re eager to compare notes. Bottomless cups of coffee and sugary danish pastries fuel us into the wee hours of the morning. Art and consciousness, religion and poetry, love and sex. We end up in his orange VW Bug in my driveway wringing the last drops of insight from the day.
Accosting her in the hall like a drive-by shooting. Phoning her from my parents kitchen like a pre-internet virus. The three girls titter in the hallway while my brother and I sing in the basement. How unsettling to look across the dark, rainy street and see the socially awkward young man standing in the doorway of the Tai Hu, staring back.