We went down A1A. I find Miami Beach magical on a cool night when the hotels and apartment buildings are all lit up and the bay is inviting; it’s kind of a kitschy paradise. The Theater for the Performing Arts was swanky, with an upper-class crowd of professionals, gays, and rich Cubans.
There are more good-looking boys on campus than I’ve ever seen in one time and place. Sometimes I have to try not to stare at my students, especially when they come in wearing shorts, tank tops, and shirts cut off at the ribs.
At the Miami Waves Festival, held at the Koubek Center in Little Havana, Glenn Terry was trying to break the (Alec) Guinness record for lying in a hammock with his clothes on backwards. I read some of my stupid South Florida stories which seemed to stupefy the crowd.
I was in bed late last night and I called out, “Hey, Miriam, I really like you . . . I just wanted you to know.” She came in here – she stayed in the living room the last two nights – and touched my shoulder, kissed my cheek, and said, “You’re a peach.”
I got a beautiful ten-page letter from Elihu, all about how he feels about turning 30 and visiting San Francisco (he didn’t fall in love with it) and working on Wall Street (he’s been at Goldman, Sachs a year now) despite still being a radical at heart.
In the Village Voice, I caught a personals ad from a guy in Flushing who has to be Brad. He said he was 28. Somehow he went from being five years older than me when I was 18 to two years younger now. Poor Brad: he’ll never grow up.
I love Teresa, but she seems to get herself in these destructive relationships with men (Don, Paul, Frank) that cause her endless grief; her life is a continual lurching from crisis to crisis.
“I absolutely believe no university professor should condone homosexuality,” he said, “and I would do everything in my power to see that those professors are fired.” I told him I am a Broward Community College teacher and I condone homosexuality.
I got a letter from George. His last paragraph: “Never say that I told you this, but I’m not happy in marriage. There seems no way to talk about it. I feel sort of out of it now.” Poor George – and his poor wife. Maybe they rushed into things too fast.
I’d feel a lot better if I knew that Richard Simmons gets depressed, too.