Is it us, or does James Wolcott have some, er, recurring thoughts? (This time I don’t think it’s us.) This time, he’s vividly conjuring up a fantasy of what Plato’s Retreat must have been like, inserting himself as a spectator watching John Bolton cavort amongst the seething, roiling, swapping, swinging masses.
Which is fine, unless you’re John Bolton and you’d prefer not to have people imagine you in the U.N. cafeteria with a woody.
Wolcott’s riff is hung on this claim that Bolton was a regular at the hot-bedding den of iniquity, though in truth the alleged presence of Bolton takes a backseat to Wolcott’s “imagined” recollections of the Retreat, like the tasty delights on the buffet table or how, in the 70s, it “brought together many people of differing viewpoints, penis and bra-cup sizes, much as the United Nations has done since its founding” (that’s right, we forgot how much he appreciates adult conversation). We could elaborate (Lord knows he did), but we’re already having strange reactions to that big, bushy mustache. Either way, for someone who allegedly wasn’t there, he sure does have a firm image of Bolton in his mind.
On another note, any double entendres in the post above are entirely unintentional, all five of them.
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