In Majorca or San Tropez, where the finest people go to play or better yet, a dictatorship in Central America with a revolution in it:


Two cities on the island: one, a port, the other, a resort. The kind of people there: everybody who is anybody anybody who is everybody's anybody's everybody are there.


A small black boy in orange shorts carries water down with coconut clumps

The presidential candidate suns on the fold back chair on the white beach front

His naked mistress, pressed breasts, on the phone, another boy spreads lotion on her butt's bronze glow tone.Some synthesized salsa speaks from the cabana columns through the palm trees.

Deep inside is Dan, the hotel pianist, down for the winter to get a tan and improve his Spanish

And upstairs the honeymoon Marxists cocoon in their room all day long. At night they walk to the other town to see the movies. They're the only white people around. When they return, we and the others note what they had done.


And the lovely lady who's just come down is Lola, my dear wife. Tomorrow she's scheduled her first polo lesson at 4:45.


I miss the occupation. The classy gangster is a Hollywood creation. And the Eiffel Tower is the last great work of the age of Iron.


Last week they burned down the most remote resort town, the militia has started swaggering, my daughter was caught daggering with the locals. So we locked her in her room, as she requested, and we talked with the guests around the card table about Scuba, France, Hungarians, and the presidential candidate's stances, and the Irish girls answered:


“If you walk on stilts, you still walk on your feet. If you sit on the higher throne, you still sit on your own ass.”


So fast, the ship comes now to take the tall people out. You know there's never been a tall dictator before. The tall melancholic freaks speak slowly and endure the short ones' delusions of grandeur.


And again, I remark to Lola, as a consolation, “Polo, Cowboys, and classy gangsters are Hollywood creations. Aristocrats have no nation. Polo, Cowboys, and classy gangsters are Hollywood creations. Aristocrats have no nation. I miss the occupation. I miss the occupation. I miss the occupation.


The sun descends, the fires and gun shots reach the shores we've pushed away, and we hear the Irish girls spit and say, “A star is something you fall in love with.”