There is, within every healthy, heterosexual man, something which, upon viewing an attractive woman clad scantily or not at all, stands a little straighter, smiles a little brighter, and breathes a quiet “yowza” of appreciation.
We speak often and with pride of America’s exceptionalism — by which we mean our rights, our freedoms, our values. And they are, make no mistake, among the finest in the world. But there are days when the bullets fly and the blood flows and no one can give you a good reason why this had to happen, and it occurs to you that we are also exceptional in the sheer, stubborn stupidity of which we are all too often capable. Last week brought another such day. A man was killed by a 9-year-old wielding a submachine gun.
You’ve probably never heard of Claudette Colvin. And yet, had history twisted in a slightly different direction, she might loom as large in American memory as Rosa Parks does now while Parks herself would be a little-remembered seamstress.
Maybe this is trite, maybe it is appropriate, maybe somehow, it is both, but the staggering news that comedian Robin Williams has died — apparently of suicide — brings to mind lyrics from a pop song Smokey Robinson made famous.