I *said* I can't explain it!

It was a federal holiday at home, for which I got one sweetly nonsensical “Happy Martin Luther King Day” message, a forward of the New York Times article on the family breakdown behind the mismanagement of the King Center in Atlanta, and a chapter in my current book group book on the looting and riots that burned down Washington, D.C. in 1968 after the news of King’s assassination.


I spent the day indoors doing absolutely nothing.

In the evening though, I got showered and dressed and got ready for dinner out. This time, it was at the invitation of Malcolm’s buddy, Mark, and his wife Jutta. Mark is from Wisconsin, but he and Jutta had a favorite Ethiopian restaurant in Berlin that they were going to introduce me too. I bundled up for the below freezing temperatures and headed out.

I got on the phone with Seán when I returned near midnight, and I tried to explain to him why I felt like crying. No, no, everything went well. In fact, it was splendid. Mark, Jutta and I enjoyed a fantastic meal, in a great restaurant (ohmygod, Angelyn, not only black folks, but Ethiopians!), and such a very entertaining conversation that I spent much of it laughing.

Gosh, when it’s that perfect, it’s like a powerful orgasm: it just begs for a good cry.

No, I can’t explain it.

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