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Show Acting Alone Page 182 was Sam's furry muse, Sam's first love, the Awakener of Sam's initial creative passions. Marx's young followers were the ones who developed Sam's tastes in dope, and who got him started writing. Marx came a-courtin' for Sam - and Sam presumed that the Marxists' only motivation could've been that they identified with him as a fellow congenital mutant. Maybe they just liked his big funky clothes (which he wore to make no great class statement, but just because he was a slob, sort of). But, in any case, Marx and Marxists entered his highschool life. Sam's friends, as if in esthetic rebellion against their parents' grandiose orientalism, liked to adorn their bedrooms with small whimsical midwestern things, like pressed strawflowers and unambitious rusty junk sculpture. And, as if in rebellion against their parents' Jewishness, they chose the most obnoxiously huge goyische boy they could dig up to invite over to their houses for dinner. Yes, they invited Sam over to dinner even though (or perhaps because) they knew that the poor lonely boy would get uncontrollable and frisky among all this human fellowship and would sit there scratching his nuts under the table all throughout the entree, saying things like, "Hey you guys, I know what let's do! Let's see who can jam the most food in their mouth at once without gagging and coughing it back up into their sinus cavity like this -" He and his friends had the first, best, finest drugs. They had sweet liquid meth even before the rich U of U med students; they had brown smack even before the niggerpimps on West Century Street; they had freezing cocaine even before the evil statehouse politicians - for the dealers really courted boys as rich and seditious as these. And the teenagers delved into the |