Marilyn Monroe died 54 years ago. I still mourn her. But it’s Norma Jean I love.
Marilyn Monroe died while I was at camp in the Southern California mountains. I stared at the cabin rafters. Skipped the afternoon swim. Picked at my mess hall chow.
How can I explain, even to myself, why her death impacted me the way it did? She was older than my mother. And yet her sad-gleeful eyes, her spun glass hair and Birth of Venus figure were ageless. I’d been stealing glances at her infamous Playboy centerfold in a dirty old man’s garage ever since I started delivering newspapers, and desired her with a desire that had no name. I’d watched her sensuous faux-naivete obliterate everything else onscreen in Some Like it Hot (still one of my favorite films), and longed to protect her and be naughty with her all at the same time.
They say pizza is the ultimate food because it combines all the essences our palates…
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