Adam . . .

"I don't understand why you like that shaggy, can't grow a mustache, 70's junkie look", said the "straight" guy at the next desk. He would only point out Ken Dolls to gauge my reaction. To see if I am reallly gay.

He was right. He couldn't understand. I don't either and I don't really want to. As long as I can remember -- since the 70s actually -- there has been this allure. Roll out from underneeth your Dodge Charger Adam.

I wish he weren't a great basketball player. I wish he were another spaced out hipster making Lattes at the corner.

Adam Morrison is like a Big Star song. He's like speed before it was disco. Like barebacking 30 years before became "in" again.

He goes ape shit on the court. Especially at the end of a game. Win or lose he is dramatic..

There is little sexual about my obsession with him. Nothing even erotic really.

I want to smoke a joint with him. Lie there next to him. Listen to him talk as he falls asleep the night after a game.

The pot would put him in that wonderful state where the body is exhausted and the mind is racing.

He mubbles in the bed next to me . . . stream of consciousness:

I am so ugly. . .

I hate those pictures I look like Lurch.

I get all nervous talking after the game,

like . . . I think I am going to forget what I said or um. . .

what I am saying. . .

or like just forget what words are.

I know what I want to say but I don't know how to talk like in my mouth,

like the face muscles don't remember how to make the words

and I can't breath out at all!

I think of superman

and how he is always shifting his eyes,

but that's it.

That's all he can do.

Just look around.