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Tonight that same fella was talking about women he's attracted to. Last time it was Japanese. Tonight it was Korean. Can't he make up his mind? Or is he just lying. You probably aren't smart enough to figure it out, so I'll just come out and tell you: he likes asians. Well, he gives the appearance of being asian himself, so it might be expected. That's asian as in what used to be called "Oriental". I've been given to believe that's a disapproved of word, now. Like Negro. How come "Caucasian" is still okay? I'm not from the Causasus Mountains. What a word. Cock Asian. How gay. And sort of hot. Yes, I know what yellow fever is.

*ahem*

Arabs are Asian. Persians are Asian. Indians are Asian. Russians are Asian. Kazakhstanis are Asian. Maybe we should go back to referring to actual color. White, black, brown, yellow. The only one that's truly precise is brown. I'm sort of a pinkish orange. Salmon. I know some Africans (that's like Caucasian -- indicating a place of ancestral origin, rather than an actual nationality) who are certainly rich in the melanin department, but black simply isn't accurate. There are "blacks" who look as "white" as I do -- well, maybe I'm not the best example, wan as I am -- but you get it. And yellow was just never accurate. But it's about groups that we identify with.

I'm told there has been a sort of hierarchical ranking of skin tones, among American blacks. How degrading. It's sort of the reverse with whites. Pale is sickly. Tan is healthy. So I've heard black comedians laugh about the white folk lying out in the sun trying to darken, and I've heard racists -- well, other racists -- make the counterpart observations about blacks. What a world. "Passing." "Octoroon." My own observation is that we're all the same color, on the bottoms of our feet. I could make hateful judgments about this fact that go either way. But let's think of it this way: the two parts of our bodies that are universally the same hue -- soles and palms -- well, feet carry us to the people we care about, and I cannot excise from my memory the thought of my tender hand cupping the face of someone I loved.

Race is about belonging. We identify with those who look like us. It's biological, instinctive -- imprinted on our infantile brains like newly hatched ducks. It's nothing to give value to. When we mature, we should outgrow such things. We should belong to groups that are about behavior rather than appearance. Of course. I'm explaining this to you because otherwise you just wouldn't ever see it.

What's that? You insist that I tell you my own preferences regarding the female women? I have two. Pale blondes. Mmm. Not bleached, not sun-baked bikini sluts. White-blond hair. Athletic and graceful. Skin like peaches and cream, smelling of fast river water. The fine down on the back of her neck. Her lips, her fingertips. Huh. Okay, just give me a few minutes, eh? ... Okay, I'm back. So the other type? I won't disclose it. You'd just make fun of me. You're doing it already.

Got a call tonight from an elderly man I know, who's asked me to move in with him for two weeks while his wife is on vacation. He'd planned on going to Paris and Egypt, but had a fall yesterday and fracture-compressed a disc. Can't walk and in great pain. Just needs someone there to help, get mail, fix meals, drive him to the doctor, keep him company a bit. I told him what he already knows -- that I'm an extremely private and solitary person. It's sad to think that I'm the guy he thought of, for help. He must have better friends than me. What a world. Changing locations, even for a time -- the thought fills me with anxiety. But I suppose I will. The alternative is a convalescence home. If we are to uncover kindness in the world, we have to plant it first.

I've decided to go to Starbucks. The thought depresses me. Stress. I only have two ways of being -- solemn and insulting. I used to be good at insults, but I outgrew it, and now I'm just stupid and lame.

I thought being 48 would be easy. My life is one third over -- when is it going to start being fun?


J