"I'm like the Acropolis. In a state of ruins, but you can tell at one time I must have been splendid." David Tidball said those words more than ten years ago. He was speaking of himself, but I quoted the English painter on many occasions without any riposte from my audience, attributing their lack of response to their ignorance of classical ruins. Americans don't possess a good sense of history, except for sporting events and 9/11. Even that last date challenges their perception of time. 27% of my countrymen have no idea what year the WTC collapsed in flames, so why should they remember a stack of carved stone atop a Greek hill?
No reason, but my body has lost its resemblance to the glory of antiquity in the last decade. The six-pack abs are a plastic sac of beer. My tight buns are sagging like melted cheese and worst my chest has ceased to be a chest. It's man boob territory. My friends mocked my decrepitude. Women envy my 36 C Cups. I've shaved them to enhance their beauty, but I have come to see that they are missing an essential accessory.
Cigar-sized nipples.
I need an operation to enlarge them or get transplants from well-teethed teats. The ridicule of my moobs would end the instant that I took off my shirt. The critics would be stunned to silence by the sight of mipples hanging from my moobs like strangled worms. They will avert their gaze, except for those that are twisted, because when the weird get weirder, things get out of control and while my ruination might rival the neglected Maya pyramids of Tikal, mipples on moobs will resurrect the dead.
The photo is the glory that was 256 East 10th Street - 1978.
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