My Best Friend Paul
Is there anything more worthy of pity than the man who has no art? Show him a painting – "Ho Hum".
Play a symphony – he falls asleep.
"Read any good books lately, Paul?"
"Yeah, Robert Parker – love that Spencer."
Paul is a strong believer in morality, civics, ethics, and has a social conscience to the point of Socialism. And yet, he will toss it all away for a roll in the hay. If appreciation for the female form is artistic, then Paul is Michelangelo . For most of his forty-eight years, he let the little head do most of the talking. At age forty-six, it talked too much. Alas, Paul’s tragic flaw. Say hello to Joey, his new son.
But, on the other hand, Paul is the complete non-materialist. Losing anything he possesses – no big deal. Generous to a fault. I once admired a particular "T" shirt. He took it off and gave it to me with four others, all without guile.
Paul has definite thoughts about the Catholicism he was born into.
"Can’t stand it. Too many sheep."
The anomaly that is Paul is mostly made manifest in his relationships. There are but three occasions to leave the nest: To be with Jean in her sub nest, to work, or to participate in a road race.
Set him among strangers or a crowd bigger than three, and he’ll weave a protective cocoon and withdraw into a form of antsiness reflective of the manic-depressive personality he claims can be controlled with chemicals. But, then again, with three or less, his conversation is glib, insightful, and dominant. Can’t figure, but, I love the guy.
Paul is a bright blue hole in dark black clouds.