Sunday, April 13, 2014

The First and Last Crush

So, I was dragged to my mom's best friend's house sometime around 87 (why does everything in this blog happen in the 80s??? UG, not ready to talk about the 90s, I guess. Def not the aughts) and I was sitting around BORED. BOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRED. She had a womany magazine, and I was flipping through. Bleh. What women want, what men want, diet tips, getting nice skin, getting laid, la la la la la. So I kept flipping, yawning, flipping. Until. I can't even remember why it was there, but there it was. The most beautiful man I'd ever seen. From that moment, I only thought of him in his 50s state. I knew who he was otherwise: Great Actor, Activist, Kind of an Asshole. Revered. But in that bored-not-bored  moment, he was Other. Something extraordinary and singular. A hot, sweaty, sneering hulk. It was lustylove at first sight.

Look at him.

Look at him again.

Isn't he fine as HAIL?

OMG, so sensitive.

I've never changed my mind after all of these years. He's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. In life, he was a MESS. Just do a Wiki search and you will see how messed up his family--as extended as it was--turned out to be. Very sad. When I started reading about him, checking out books from the main Wichita library, it was all negative. His first wife spent the first chapter of her book insulting his penis size. No one, not even his "friends," have anything nice to say about him.

We would all hope to have something better to leave behind. What he has is his acting career on screen. It is terrible. Not that legacy, no--he's obviously an icon--but as a person he left little behind but bad, worse, and shame. Sad!

Yet. Let's not kid ourselves. What do we "love" these people for, exactly? Entertainment? Yes! Idealized sexfest partners? Yes! Husbands/wives? Sigh, but probably. Sadly they are just human. Full of faults and scars and addictions. Despite all of his shortcomings, Marlon Brando will forever be my physical idea of perfection. Like a scary box of chocolates, his real filling was something close to that horrid faux cherry bootscum. But one can only hope to run into his doppelganger on the subway someday, full of gentles and reading Thomas King, full of nothing but soft salted caramel surprise.

Wow, that got kinky fast, eh? That man was salty, salty caramel. Daaaayum.


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