Deep into the Billy Connolly bio, written by his wife Pam Stephenson, and moved immensely by his fortitude. The prose is a smidge dense, but loving, and the insights of Dr. S, a clinical psychologist, compensate for the paucity of lyricism. I do love Connolly, his high and low wit, and his passion for the imperfections.
Meanwhile: My own bio of sorts, Call-It-A-Memoir, whatever sells, wink, nod, wink, is at the point where race shoves the narrator’s identity into deeper recesses, and where his knowledge of not fitting in no longer becomes something to wrestle with, but rather it is a thing to embrace. It gives him the perspective to feel and understand.
He cooks, he thinks, he thinks about cooking.
Why, just last night: Fried tofu with plum sauce and chili and toasted sesame seeds, tuna dumplings in black bean sauce atop buckwheat soba, and pea pods with horseradish.
It’s what gives us strengths, these sets of distractions, until surroundings become just that.
I heard a great Billy Connolly joke on You Tube the other day: The Queen Mother was hosting the King of Tonga at a parade in London. The royal horses trotted by and one let out a loud fart right in front of them. The Queen Mother turned to the king and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry.” The king said, “I thought it was the horse.”