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Show Anting Alone Page 187 are you talking so loudly? What's the matter, Ollie? Sam eventually focused on the young black boy, and saw that he was all got up in a sort of para-Nazi uniform: swastika-bristling black leather hotpants, even in the subzero (Houston? Chicago?) weather. . . Sam's mind quickly sprang to his own defense. He must not wind up dumped in a neck-deep mud puddle as Ollie always did. He had just emerged victorious from a big-city barroom brawl, but he knew deep down inside that the only really formidable weapon he had was his inflamed brain. So he turned his brain loose, with the predictable results. He began, right there on the street, to pick apart his assailant - his wan little sidekick, his partner in self-deprecating slapstick. He made his Marxist friends listen, and tried to ignore the sniggers and the "hey, Ollies" that were starting up in their throats - "C'mon now," Sam almost yelled. "That homo over there is the first homo I ever met that doesn't know how to dress. See? He's trying to be Stanley and a little para-Nazi at the same time. But you just try and watch Laurel and Hardy with any German person, and you'll see that they mix like oil and water. They are congenitally perverted people, Krauts are, and so they are unable to see perversion exposed! - or, at least the real fullblooded Aryans can't. They see nothing deep or transcendental or horrifying in these weird old movies. They dismiss Laurel and Hardy as Dich und Doen, just two silly thick and thin Americans. But you boys know as well as I that there's more there. Remember the scene where the two of them are on the bed together, and they're restlessly changing from one exotic pair of positions to another as they discuss the possiblity of their |