My WWII friend, Armand, wanted to introduce me to a new restaurant. I worried if it might be too expensive, or maybe too common. We had enjoyed Hispanic cuisine at a restaurant he adopted in Hicksville, Punto Rojo, with which he had been associated since its opening.
But when he told me the name of the new restaurant, I knew I couldn’t take my wife there because of the sad connotations. The name was Monroe’s, after Marilyn. Poor Marilyn had been the plaything of various men, none of whom wished her harm, but they had been unconscious of her real welfare. From their standpoint, there was too much me, me.
There was no Son of Man to save her. She could have used a man like that.
Civilization 